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Vage 102 *. 


* 







SEQUEL 


'L 


TO THE 


NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


/rnra tljB innuitt. 


BY 

/ 

Mrs. SARAH A. MYERS. 



LINDSAY & BLAKISTON. 
1854. 


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1 853, by 
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON, 

in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States 
for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 


STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN. 


C. EHKRMAS, PRINTER. 


PREFACE. 


The favorable reception given to the first part 
of our story of the “Neighbors’ Children” has in- 
duced us to send forth the Sequel, as we promised, 
which we do in the hope of its meeting with the 
same welcome. As the little volume already pub- 
lished was intended to illustrate the importance of 
the Scriptural injunction to “train up a child in 
the way he should go,” so in the latter is exempli- 
fied not only the value and effect of such training, 
as shown in its sustaining influence on one of the 
young heroes of our story, but also the disadvan- 
tages that are sure to attend those whose earthly 
guardians have neglected this duty, the perform- 
ance of which is commanded in the Book of Truth 
as imperative. We feel it to be unnecessary to 
multiply words by way of preface — we would rather 
leave our story to inculcate its own moral ; but we 
cannot help taking this opportunity of saying some- 

cm) 


IV 


PREFACE. 


thing on a subject to which much interest is due. 
We know that much suspicion as well as censure 
has been justly directed to many of the writings 
translated from foreign languages ; some have been 
condemned for their frivolity, and others for their 
injurious moral tendency ; hut let us beseech indul- 
gence for this which we have offered to our young 
readers. We would be the last to wish to trans- 
plant a noxious weed or poisonous flower, no matter 
how bright their coloring, into the fair garden of 
our young literature ; but while we add this one 
more offering to those already approved, we trust 
it may prove truly an “ herb of grace.” We will 
only say further of our little book, that having had 
much opportunity of reading the works of the Ger- 
man author — ‘and she has written much — whom we 
have thus chosen to bring before our American 
public, we have scanned them closely, and found 
nothing throughout their pages but what tells not 
only of a sound and healthful state of mind — but 
an earnest desire to teach to the young, lessons of 
pure morality, founded on the rules of Scriptural 
truth. We hope, therefore, our unpretending 
volume will be greeted with the same welcome as 
that which preceded it, and gain the same favor 


PREFACE. 


V 


from those in our happy country, who prefer true 
teaching to meretricious ornament, as its original 
has done in Germany — that nursery of powerful 
intellect, where its excellent author still labours. 
We therefore commit it to their charitable consider- 
ation with a remark from the pious Thomas k Kern- 
pis : “ Let not the reader mistake the motive of the 
writer, whether he shows great learning and beauty 
of thought, or is content to inculcate Truth in a 
plain, unadorned manner. Enquire not who has 
written or said it, but rather remark what has been 
written or said.” 



SEQUEL TO THE 


NEIGHBORS' CHILDREN. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ If that way be your walk, you have not far ; 
So much the nearer danger ; go, and speed ! 
Havoc, and spoil, and ruin, are my gain.” 


The duty of family prayer was one which was 
never neglected at Steinrode; but on this, the 
morning of the Baron’s intended journey, it was 
performed with even more than usual solemnity. 
Although Faith teaches man to believe himself 
ever an object of care to a superintending Power — 
as safely watched over abroad as at home — there 
are few who set out for an absence of some days or 
weeks, without a thought of what may happen in 
that space of time, and so more earnestly commend 
themselves and their concerns to the keeping of a 
heavenly Protector. It w T as therefore with deeper 
feeling, and more devotional importunity than 
usual, that the prayer of this morning was offered, 
petitioning for safety and a happy reunion ; or if 
that, in the hidden depth of purpose belonging to 
2 ( 13 ) 


14 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

Divine Wisdom, were denied, that all might meet 
around the great throne in Heaven ; that to such 
of them as should be spared to pursue the stern 
journey of life, preserving grace should be given ; 
chastened, if needs he, but not given over to hard- 
ness, or unbelief ; afflicted, scourged, but not for- 
saken, or delivered up to despair. The father 
spoke in exhortation to his children, charging them 
to be kind and obedient to their mother, and care- 
ful to keep out of the way of temptation to err 
from the influence of bad example. He adverted 
to the family who were at present under their roof, 
and bade them be cautious in their behaviour 
towards them. a They do not see things in the 
same light as ourselves,” said he, “or they would 
be with us at this moment ; but we trust that God 
will yet enable them to see the true way. And for 
ourselves, we know that although ‘ here is no con- 
tinuing city,’ let us bless Him that we can yet look 
forward to one, the foundations whereof are laid in 
Heaven — whose Builder and whose Maker is God.’ 

What is that mysterious influence which operates 
upon the spirit, and causes it dimly to foresee what 
is irresistibly “borne in upon the mind,” as some 
one has termed presentiments ? What secret inti- 
mation is given of events to come, though “ clouds 
and shadows rest” upon the future? Man’s boasted 
wisdom reaches not so far as to solve the mystery ; 
and it is a subject on the elucidation of which he 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


15 


must remain ignorant until, divested of its veil of 
flesh, the spirit shall revel in the full blaze of light 
which we believe was its original inheritance, and 
which we trace in the bright gleamings that occa- 
sionally flash through the darkness that envelopes 
this present state. That “ coming events cast their 
shadows before,” we know ; but cannot tell in what 
manner the premonition is made — whether from 
internal consciousness or external agency, or the 
immediate influence of some celestial guardian, 
commissioned by the universal Parent to watch 
over man, and warn him of the threatened danger. 
As though it were so in this case, and the dark 
cloud about to overshade was dimly foreseen, all 
were deeply impressed with the simple service of 
this morning ; for many times had the sun to rise 
and set in floods of golden light — many alterna- 
tions of night and morning were to take place — 
many times was the earth to change her seasons 
of fruit and flowers — before all who knelt around 
that family altar, should again assemble there. 

Lady Yon Grosse, as yet not humbled by her 
adversity, never appeared to bend the knee in 
company with that Christian family ; but the time 
was not far distant when that proud spirit was to 
be bowed, and exchange the stiff neck of rebellion 
for the meek and child-like deportment taught by 
the sanctified use of afflictions. 

The breakfast-table had been withdrawn, when 


16 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


Baron Lindenburg, now nearly ready to set out, 
remembered some business which he had to transact 
in the village of Steinrode, of which it was neces- 
sary a message should be sent back to the castle ; 
he therefore proposed that the servant who was to 
accompany him on his travel, should proceed thither 
with the horses, and Felix walk over with himself. 
Much was the boy delighted with the prospect, 
inasmuch as he promised himself a short visit to 
Ehrenfried; but in this latter particular he was 
disappointed. The day was rather raw and chilly, 
and Felix had complained, the evening before, of 
a slight sore throat. Yet, hardy as the young 
pines upon their own native hills, they never 
thought of keeping within doors for a trifling in- 
disposition ; but the careful mother, calling him to 
her that she might fasten his collar, and secure his 
throat from the damp atmosphere by tying a warm 
comforter around it, discovered that his jacket had 
lost a button. It was but five minutes’ work to 
sew it on ; and while her busy fingers accomplished 
the task, she bade him return as quickly as possi- 
ble, for there was some errand she wished him to 
do for herself. 

“Now Felix, my dear,” said she, “I am sorry 
to disappoint you of your visit to Ehrenfried, but 
it cannot be helped at present ; you and Herman 
shall both have holiday on Saturday, but now you 
must come back as quickly as possible.” 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 17 

“I will, mother dear,” replied he; “ do n’t I 
always do what you tell me ?” and he lovingly 
threw his arms around her neck, and looked up 
with his laughing blue eyes into her face. 

“Not always — lately ,” she answered, with a 
smile, as she passed her fingers through his w^avy 
hair, and removed the curls from his fair forehead, 
where she imprinted more than one maternal kiss ; 
and if her mother’s heart swelled with some pride 
as her eyes rested on her beautiful boy, she might 
well be excused for the weakness — if weakness it 
were — for there are few who do not acknowledge 
the power of beauty. It is a gift — a glorious gift 
from God himself, investing its possessor with more 
than earthly seeming; and if rightly appreciated 
by its owner, is a powerful talisman, making man 
almost a god, and woman an angel. 

We have said she kissed him again and again — 
did she feel that she held him in her arms for the 
last time? Did she behold some dark brooding 
angel unfold his baleful wing over the head of her 
darling, and deem that in those mother’s kisses 
there lay a charm that could ward off the trea- 
cherous influence ? We know not how this was, 
but we believe that the pious prayer breathed in 
the secret chamber of that mother’s heart, ascended 
up to God, who, for good and wise purposes (in a 
dark and mysterious providence) saw fit to shroud 
the early days of this beautiful boy in deep dark- 
2 * 


18 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

ness, and covered him with the wing of his protec- 
tion, even while he permitted his impulsive spirit to 
be disciplined in one of the severest schools that 
Adversity can teach. 

The Baron’s leave-taking was quiet ; and he felt 
better at leaving his family since they were not 
alone. Lady Yon Grosse and her children were 
still not thinking of removal ; the Count was ex- 
pected to be there shortly; hut better than all, 
aunt Angela was again with them. All seemed 
well, and yet gloom hung upon them, they knew 
not why, for the Baron’s absence from home w^as 
no uncommon thing, being often obliged to be from 
home. Although the day was dull and gloomy, it 
threw none of its chilling shadow over the bright 
spirit of Felix, who trudged along gaily by his 
father’s side, on their way to the village. A few 
words with Ehrenfried had to serve in place of the 
hoped-for visit ; but the prospect of the whole of 
Saturday was enough to compensate for the dis- 
appointment. The Baron soon concluded his 
business with the farmer whom he wished to see, 
and having given the message he wished sent back, 
he laid his hand upon the boy’s head and gave him 
his blessing, bidding him, when they parted, go 
home as quickly as possible. 

Since Felix did disobey, it is almost to be re- 
gretted that he did not slight the admonition of 
his mother, and remain longer with Ehrenfried ; 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 19 

but this be did not do. How necessary it is for 
all ever to keep in the path of duty : had Felix 
done so, what years of misery had been spared ! 
After parting with his father, he set forth vigor- 
ously to retrace his homeward road, and had 
already reached the forest path, when he saw 
Amade and Eugene upon it. They had left the 
castle without observation, and the former was 
already exulting in the success of his scheme, when 
the cheerful voice of Felix hailing them from a 
distance once more recalled him to himself, and to 
the probable consequences of his perilous under- 
taking. Muttering curses between his teeth as he 
awoke to the danger of his present position, when 
it should be discovered in the search certain to be 
made for Eugene as soon as he was missed at the 
castle, that he had been seen with himself in the 
forest, and so betrayal was the sure consequence, 
like all other villains, he was obliged to seal his 
first sin with a second. Cursing, therefore, the 
accident that had thrown Felix in the way of his 
purpose, he was at the same time resolutely 
determined to prevent his return to the castle, 
caring not for the anxiety he might cause, and 
dreading only to be found out. Dressing his face 
in smiles, whilst his heart was trembling at the 
thoughts of its own dark purpose, he repeated the 
tale with which he had already cheated Eugene to 
Felix when he came up to them, well knowing that 


20 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

the prospect of capturing a fox in a trap would 
not be lost upon the lively boy. He was right. 
The hasty impulsive Felix, in his great delight and 
wish to see master Reynard outwitted, forgot the 
request of his mother, the admonition of his father, 
to return as speedily as possible, and turning from 
the path which led to home and safety, he followed 
the insidious guide into the bosom of the forest, 
where he had said, and truly, that the snare was 
set. It was, perhaps, the first time in his life 
that Felix had so positively disobeyed the com- 
mand of his parents; but we have before said that 
his unavoidable companionship with Eugene had 
not been without effect. His plastic nature, too 
easily impressed, had, in more than one instance, 
yielded to the force of his bad example, although 
he did not love him ; and now in this, the last and 
greatest departure from duty of which he had 
been guilty, punishment, severe and tedious punish- 
ment, followed immediately on the commission of 
the offence. It was no doubt so ordered, or at 
least permitted, in mercy and in love. Severe but 
salutary as the chastenings of our Heavenly 
Father always are, who or what suffered or gainsay 
their wisdom, how many have been rescued by 
them from the headlong road to ruin ; how many 
of the straying restored to the right path. 
“Before I was afflicted,” said the inspired minstrel, 
“ I went astray, but now I keep thy love.” And 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


21 


now God, whose broad eye sees the end from tho 
beginning, loved the spirit he saw it necessary to 
chasten, and sent the discipline in early life, to 
save that which had brought forth no “ fruit unto 
holiness” in nature, although many faithful hearts 
had to bleed for a time, and sorrow as those “with- 
out hope,” until the issue of the great plot should 
be unfolded. 

With many tales of fox-chasing and fox-cunning, 
irresistibly charming to boys of their age, Amade 
cheated the rugged way which led them to a differ- 
ent and more distant part of the forest than Felix 
had ever yet seen. Here the oaks stood thicker 
upon the ground, the interlacing branches and 
spiry undergrowth, giving it the appearance of 
some primeval grove, whose sylvan solitude man 
had not dared to disturb ; and the same stream 
that ran so quietly through the castle garden, 
meeting with many obstacles from rocks and 
inequalities of ground, roared with a voice like 
that of an angry spirit (as it rushed on its head- 
long course), increasing the wildness and savage 
grandeur of the scene. Feelings of awe had 
already begun to creep over the boys, as is ever 
the case when Man, standing in the temple of 
mighty Nature, is aware of the Divinity that rules 
the spot ; but astonishment was added with almost 
paralysing effect, when Amade, applying his finger 
to his lips, gave a shrill whistle, which was answered 


22 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


close by, and Dietrich, the wild, frightful, and 
revengeful Dietrich, rushed forth from the thicket, 
and, with a cry of maniac joy, threw himself 
upon Eugene. For him resistance would have 
been useless, had it been offered ; but naturally 
timid, fright had now rendered him powerless, and 
with fainting limbs and nerveless brain, he strug- 
gled not in the hands of his captor, who bound him 
hand and foot with* every demonstration of savage 
delight. No word escaped the poor boy’s lips ; 
he had fully recognized Dietrich, and he gave him- 
self up to his enemy as submissively as the dove 
yields to the swoop of the falcon. Not so Felix; 
his first impulse was to fly; but Amade, now fearing 
nothing but his escape, soon overtook him ; and 
although the boy made stout resistance, he was at 
length overpowered by superior strength, and a 
handkerchief was forced into his mouth to stifle 
the cries which he had already sent forth into the 
still forest, hoping, but vainly, thereby to bring 
some help. He fought until overpowered, for 
Dietrich, having easily disposed of Eugene, now 
came to the assistance of Amade, and bound him 
hand and foot with cords, with which, as it seemed, 
he was plentifully provided. Feeling how useless 
the further resistance of one weak boy against two 
powerful men would be, he yielded quietly to the 
fate, whatever it might be, that awaited him, and, 
more collected than his frightened companion, 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 28 

endeavouring to gather some light from the con- 
versation of the men who were so unexpectedly 
arisen as enemies. 

“ What does this mean, knave ?” asked Dietrich 
of Amade, with a scowl. 

“ 1 bring you two instead of one,” said Amade, 
laughing. “ I did not want this fighting fellow 
any more than yourself; but I could not help 
bringing him. He must not be suffered to escape, 
for he would go back to the castle and betray us 
both ; no, keep him as close as you can, at least 
until after I have made tracks from this abomi- 
nable Deutschland. He would be sure to tell 
what he saw, and nobody must know that I had 
anything to do with Eugene. But indeed I pity 
the poor boy, for I have always had a liking for 
him, and it must have been his evil genius that led 
him into my way this morning.” 

“ A bad business, a bad business,” muttered 
Dietrich ; “ what shall I do with the boy ? he does 
not belong to any part of my plan.” 

“ You must take what you can get, or give up 
your silly purpose altogether,” said Amad6, 
fiercely ; “ I have no notion of putting my neck 
into the hangman’s noose ; ’tis a manner of going 
out of the world I never fancied. You must either 
take both or none ; and if you choose to wander 
about here as you have been doing, you will be 
sure to be discovered; in that case you will be 


24 THE neighbors’ children. 

condemned to the death of an incendiary, before 
you will have had time to accomplish your plan of 
vengeance.” 

The look of threatening bestowed on him by 
Dietrich awed him into silence ; but he folded his 
arms, and assuming an attitude of scornful deter- 
mination, he waited until his comrade should decide 
and speak. 

It was some time ere he did so ; and then again 
much altercation ensued. Dietrich insisted that he 
had no wish to punish Felix along with Eugene ; 
he said he knew what the boy’s parents would 
suffer from his removal; ah.! he only knew how 
well the grief occasioned by the loss of a child — 
his little Annie — his only darling; no, he had 
vowed revenge upon her grave, and revenge now 
stood in her stead to him — he could not, would not 
give up Eugene, now that he had him in his power. 
Arnade, when he again spoke, represented the ex- 
treme imprudence of letting Felix go back; in any 
event he must be kept some time from home, whilst 
Dietrich prosecuted his plan of carrying off Eugene 
to Poland, or at least until his own term of service 
had expired, which would be shortly, and he was 
beyond all reach of pursuit in France, where his 
mother lived. For although he too was kindly 
disposed towards Felix, he was not weak enough 
to expect to bind the boy to a promise of secresy 
which he would be sure to break, since he w’ould 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 25 

certainly tell how he had met himself 'with Eugene 
in the forest, and then it could not be but that he 
would suffer punishment as being an accomplice 
in the abduction of the latter. “No, no,” said 
he, as he concluded his argument, “ there is nothing 
else that can be done ; Felix must share the lot of 
Eugene, at least for the present, or else the whole 
affair is at an end.” 

Dietrich at length was made to comprehend what 
Amade meant, and going towards the hoys, bade 
them make no noise, neither offer any resistance, 
for both would be unavailing. Much of their 
future treatment would depend on their quiet sub- 
missiveness ; at present nothing more was required 
of them than to do as they were told ; and as their 
first act of obedience to their new master they were 
bidden to follow him in silence to a spot, towards 
which he led the way. He strode over the crack- 
ling undergrowth, as though quite familiar with 
the way, although path there was none, bearing 
still, as the heart of Felix told him, in a direction 
opposite to Steinrode. The trees at length began 
to grow' thinner, the thickets less tangled, and 
patches of blue sky appearing through the foliage, 
showed that they were approaching the opposite 
edge of the forest. The neighing of a horse 
caused them to look up, and there by the side of 
a by-road made by the colliers of that region for 
3 


26 THE neighbors’ children. 

transporting wood to their coal-pits, stood a small 
miserable wagon, covered with coarse linen, to 
which was harnessed a stout country horse, seem- 
ingly able to carry them on a long journey, for 
although rough as a tinker’s pony, he was in ex- 
cellent condition. 

A quantity of clothing, made of the roughest 
material, such as is worn by gipsey tinkers and 
collier hoys, was taken from some hidden coffer 
within the vehicle, and our two acquaintances were 
directed to put on such as their conductors 
designated, divesting themselves of every article 
of their own by which they could possibly be re- 
cognised. The next act of procedure was to cut 
off their hair ; this was speedily done by Amadd, 
and in the most disfiguring manner, so that in the 
patched and squalid dresses they were obliged to 
assume, no one could have recognised them as the 
children of nobility ; for we must acknowledge 
those advantages of person which birth is supposed 
to confer are greatly aided by the auxiliary of 
dress. Whilst all this transforming process was 
going on, Amade and Dietrich only exchanged a 
few words with each other — the whole business 
being accomplished in a few minutes, and the boys 
having been desired to mount up into the wagon, 
a request which they seemed rather reluctant to 
obey, they were somewhat rudely assisted to do so, 
after which the confederates separated. Dietrich 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 27 

took his place beside them, and after threatening 
to punish all attempts to escape, or any refractory 
behaviour maintained a resolute and gloomy 
silence, closing his ears to the prayer they would 
utter, and deaf to the sobs which issued from their 
breaking hearts, he drove his stout charger rapidly 
over stack and stone, at a pace which occasioned 
such a jolting of the wagon as threatened every 
bone in their bodies with dislocation. That he was 
fearful of pursuit was evident ; for he not only 
urged the animal to a speed absolutely cruel, but 
held on his way through a wild mountainous region, 
by solitary roads, where no human being appeared, 
and where no smoke, curling above the tree-tops, 
gave sign of human habitation. 

We must leave them for awhile to pursue their 
disastrous journey, to look after those anxious 
hearts left behind : but let us just enquire what 
Amade did, or how he concluded the first act of his 
treacherous drama, so successfully begun, and the 
termination of which his coward heart trembled to 
contemplate. He remained standing on the same 
spot where Dietrich left him until the sound of 
the wheels was entirely lost in the distance; a 
bright red spot gloAved on his dark cheeks, and his 
eyes burned w’ith unusual light. At length he 
roused himself. 

“Would that J had never seen those unlucky 
jewels,” said he to himself; “they have done me 


28 THE neighbors’ children. 

no good, but caused me to live in daily terror of 
detection ; and now I have plunged still further 
into crime, and must deepen the dye by adding to 
it duplicity. Ah ! so it is ever ; one cannot stop 
with one sin — after the first step is taken, others 
must follow. But now there is nothing left for me 
but to play the play out. Would that this accursed 
term of service were at an end, for I shall never 
know a moment’s peace until I am safe in my 
native country. It will be horrible for me to face 
my mistress, but I must do it like a man ; — but I 
would far rather have given that haughty Melanie 

to Dietrich than Felix ah ! that hurts me more 

than all the rest. But I must act, and quickly ; 
self-reproach will now do no good.” 

He proceeded, even as he spoke, to gather up 
the clothing of which he and Dietrich had divested 
the boys, and carried them to the bank of the 
stream, at a place both deep and rapid, which lay 
about a quarter of a league from the castle, and 
in a direction entirely opposite to that from whence 
he parted with Dietrich and his captives. He laid 
their caps and upper garments on the shore to show 
that at this spot they had gone into bathe ; and 
some yards further down, he hung a portion of 
their linen on some bushes that protruded from the 
water ; and as at that place the current was par- 
ticularly strong, it might be very readily supposed 
they had both been swept away by its rapidity, and 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 29 

drowned. Having accomplished all this, he re- 
turned to the castle by a circuitous route ; and 
entering by the porter’s lodge in front, he spoke to 
the old woman at the gate, and went on directly to 
the servants’ room, where he was glad to find his 
absence had not been noticed. Not a word was 
said of the children ; and thus many hours passed 
before any one missed Felix and Eugene from 
among the rest. And indeed, it was not until the 
family were called to assemble for dinner, that any 
one, except the mother of Felix, thought of en- 
quiring for them ; but then each one recollected 
that neither of them had been seen from the time 
of the early breakfast hour. Then the consterna- 
tion rose to a fearful height, and each heart boded 
misfortune. 


3 * 


30 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


CHAPTER II. 

“And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age, 

And rob me of a happy mother’s name ?” 

Lady Lindenburg, occupied with her other chil- 
dren, did not remark the protracted absence of 
Felix with any uneasiness, until the morning was 
far advanced. Wondering at a disobedience so 
unusual in any member of her family, she was 
prepared to chide him for his unwonted delay ; but 
when the dinner-bell rang, and the others appeared 
ready to take their places at the table, her dis- 
pleasure changed to alarm when she found he was 
not among the number. f 

She enquired of Herman if he had seen his 
brother — of the servants, if any of them had met 
him on his return from the village; a negative from 
each one was the only answer to her question. 
The dinner was left untouched. Filled with 
anxiety, the mother despatched messengers every 
where for tidings of her missing boy ; some to the 
park — others to Petusmuhl — although she felt 
assured he would not go there after her expressed 
wish that he should not. The forest was searched 
— she examined the gardens herself — but all was 
in vain. No one had seen him but Ehrenfried, and 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


31 


the farmer to whom he had gone with his father ; 
both had seen him leave the village on his home- 
ward road, but this was at so early an hour, that it 
gave no clue to what might have happened. Hour 
succeeded hour — each one increasing the weight of 
anxiety that pressed upon her heart, but she 
yielded not to the tears that would have unnerved 
her, until late in the evening ; then the messengers 
sent to a distance returned, and all brought the 
same answer — no traces had been found. 

Until this time, Lady Yon Grosse, accustomed 
to Eugene’s long absences (for he went wherever 
he pleased without asking permission), was by no 
means alarmed ; and expressed herself to Melanie, 
that she thought “Lady Lindenburg was making a 
great rout about nothing ; she did not know why 
boys should always be tied to their mother’s apron 
— ’t was a sure way to keep down their spirit. For 
her part, she would let Eugene do as he pleased — 
there was nothing she loved so well as independence 
of character.” But when the bell was rung for 
supper, and Eugene did not answer to the summons, 
then her consternation was wild and fearful. She 
ran shrieking through the garden ; and, unheeding 
the darkness, into the park. 

“Eugene, my child — Eugene, come to me!” 
and those screams tore the hearts of all who heard 
them — they sounded like the cries of a maniac. 

It would be impossible to describe the scene of 


32 THE neighbors’ children. 

confusion and dismay that now took place in the 
orderly household at Steinrode. The servants, sad 
and affrighted, gathered in groups about the hall, 
or on the staircase ; crying, whispering, or running 
about apparently half distracted, as they saw the 
agitation of their superiors. The children, with 
the exception of Herman and Melanie, were sob- 
bing aloud. Old mother Spiller had penetrated to 
the family room, and with little Pauline on her lap, 
sat weeping beside Lady Lindenburg, whose fears 
of disaster had now amounted to certainty ; yet 
calm, although with a face as pale as death, she 
once more ordered the forest to be searched — 
directing the men to carry flambeaux, leaving no 
spot unvisited. Herman had until this moment 
stood beside her, mastering his own emotion to 
comfort and assure her; although the heavy drops 
of perspiration that stood upon his broad white 
forehead, showed how deeply his brother’s heart was 
wrung. But now he left her, determined to make 
one of the exploring party, going with the portion 
who went on foot ; whilst Mr. Bulow and two of 
the grooms mounted on horseback, and determined 
to follow the windings of the stream ; particularly 
as one of the stable-boys remembered that Eugene 
had asked him about getting him some worms, at 
the same time saying he was “goings fishing one of 
these days !” 

This afforded a slight glimmer of hope to all but 


THE NEIGHBORS* CHILDREN. 33 

Lady Lindenburg. They might, in pursuing their 
sport, have gone farther than they intended, and 
so lost their way, being bewildered in the intri- 
cacies of the forest ; or else, leaving the track 
entirely, had wandered to some herdsman’s cottage, 
from which it was too late to return. 

But no such hope cheated the heart of Felix’s 
mother ; she knew him too well to believe he would 
disobey her to such an extent as this implied ; and 
she sat with folded hands and in silent sorrow, 
endeavouring to subdue the tumult raging in her 
mother’s heart, and bring it to that submission 
which she had many times already experienced 
was demanded of those who would be children of 
God. 

After the departure of the last party, all had 
become comparatively silent. Aunt Angela was a 
real comfort at this time to her afflicted sister, and 
endeavoured to be so too to Lady Yon Grosse, if 
she would have permitted her; but that lady 
would not listen to a word from any one; she 
turned away from aunt Angela, pushed Melanie 
to one side when she would have approached her, 
and continued her fruitless roaming in the park, 
although the dark day had ended in a thick mist, 
or rather drizzling rain, which, added to the chill 
mountain blasts that moaned through the trees, and 
detached the withering leaves from their branches, 
■would at any other time have filled her with alarm, 


34 THE neighbors’ children. 

and now was fraught with danger to her health. 
But a mother’s anxiety now predominated over 
every thing else ; she heeded not the gusts that 
tossed the swaying branches, waving like giant 
arms above her head — she knew not that rain 
was falling, or if she did, cared not that it might 
be injurious to herself — her son, her idol, for she 
had even loved him better than his sister, was 
abroad, exposed to the same inclemency, and she 
could not give up her search while hope remained. 

Aunt Angela had deemed it best to leave her ; 
so giving a servant orders to see that she did not 
wander in an unsafe direction, she once more 
entered the room where she had left her sister 
surrounded by her children, whose loud grief had 
been somewhat subdued by the spark of hope 
kindled up for a moment by the evidence of the 
stable-boy. No word was spoken — a half-sup- 
pressed sob from one of the sisters alone broke the 
silence that reigned within that room so lately 
cheerful ; the old clock in the hall chimed the hour 
of ten, and the glare of torches gleaming through 
the windows from without, told of the servants’ 
return. A wild shriek was heard from the garden ; 
it was from the mother still calling on her son’s 
name, and the cry was most agonizing. Another 
moment and a horse was heard galloping over the 
gravelled walk. A hustle without showed that the 
servants had pressed forward for news ; but no 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 35 

acclamations followed as they would have done 
on the reception of joyful tidings; no footsteps 
pressed forward to carry the lost boy to his des- 
pairing mother ; a boding stillness succeeded to the 
previous rush ; and Lady Lindenburg, crossing 
her hands meekly over her bosom, said, “ Go, 
Angela, and hear the worst: I am able to bear it !” 

The horseman was the groom who had accom- 
panied Mr. Bulow, and when Angela reached the 
hall he was standing in the midst of a group of 
servants, dripping with rain, and holding the cap 
and clothing of Felix in his hand, from which the 
water was likewise streaming. No further confir- 
mation of their fears seemed necessary ; a few 
words explanatory of how and where he had found 
them was sufficient. The servants retired to the 
kitchen to conjecture how and where the body 
would be found, and to tell marvellous tales of the 
spirits of the Hartz, who were known to attract 
boys away from their parents, and “keep them 
ever so many years.” 

“ Indeed,” said Dolly, the chambermaid, “I 
should not wonder if the Berggeist* made them fol- 
low him into the water, like the fairy did Seppi, 
the goatherd.” 

“ I thought of that when I saw the linen hang- 
ing on the bushes in the middle of the stream,” 


Mountain goblin. 


36 THE neighbors’ children. 

said Eric, the groom who had found the clothes, 
“ and I was almost afraid to venture ; yes, it must 
be so, that is if the bodies are not found, for I 
suppose my poor lady will have us all out dragging 
the river, to-morrow.” 

“I thought something was to happen,” said 
Dolly, as she hitched her chair a little closer to 
that of Eric, “for, this morning, the black cat 
looked up into my face, and mewed three times.” 

“And I declare,” said Grettly, the dairy-maid, 
“ old Blackhorns would not give me a drop of 
her milk, and kicked the pail over three times in 
spite of me ; and that is always a sign of some- 
thing.” 

“ You are a set of silly fools,” said the cook ; 
“ do you suppose the cats know what is going to 
happen, when sensitive creatures do not ; or that 
the black cow held up her milk because master 
Felix, poor dear, was going to be drownded. The 
cat cried because she was hungry and wanted to be 
implenished ; and the only sign about old Black- 
horns was, that she deposed you to be a fool. 
Get you off to your beds ; your sitting up won’t 
do no good, and there won’t be no carousing you 
in the morning.” 

Some of those she addressed followed her bidding 
and example ; but others sat still, and building up 
a large bright wood fire in the ample hearth, their 
party soon became augmented by some of the 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 37 

neighboring tenants, among whom the sad news 
was already spread, and dropped in one after 
another, they whiled the dreary night away with 
many a wild legend and tale of superstitious bear- 
ing, the truth of which they did not for a moment 
question, until in their excited imaginations suppo- 
sition almost became belief that Felix and Eugene 
were spirited away by some demon of the Hartz ; 
“ but this,” they added, “ will be proved if the bodies 
are not found.” The grey and misty morning 
found them still discussing the matter ; and glad 
were they when the dawn called them once more 
to their usual occupations. 

Aunt Angela had broken the tidings brought by 
Mr. Bulow as tenderly as possible to her sister ; 
no violent outburst of grief resounded through that 
chamber Of mourning — the family were silent in 
their woe — they knew it was by the hand of God 
they had been smitten. Lady Lindenburg bade her 
sister go to her suffering guest, who had met the 
party on horseback in the park on their return from 
the river ; it was on seeing Eugene’s clothes that she 
had screamed so wildly ; and Mr. Bulow dismount- 
ing from his horse, gave the bridle to one of the 
grooms, and at length succeeded in persuading her 
to accompany him to the castle. 

Some soothing cordial was given her by the 
benevolent hand of aunt Angela, who moved about 
like a minister of mercy among these afflicted ones, 
4 


38 THE neighbors’ children. 

her hysterical emotions after a time were quieted, 
and she at length sunk into a quietude resembling 
sleep — that quietude which, although we do not 
lose all consciousness, is yet sufficient to blunt the 
sharp edge of the mourner’s sorrow, and steals over 
the stricken heart like twilight veiling with her 
dewy robe the day exhausted by the summer’s 
heat. Then giving Melanie many charges to 
watch beside her mother’s bedside, and stationing 
one of the maidens in an ante-room, she turned to 
her sister’s chamher, and there, locked in each 
other’s arms, they watched and wept the weary 
night away. 

Mr. Bulow proposed that a messenger should at 
once be sent after Baron Lindenburg, who was 
stopping at a friend’s house for that night. It 
was at no great distance, but it was necessary that 
the place of his sojourn should be reached before 
he should have left it ; as early in the morning he 
expected to proceed on his journey. The night was 
becoming each moment more wild and stormy ; but 
Eric, the groom, declared his willingness to set out 
at once, which he did, notwithstanding his super- 
stitious belief in spectres and goblins, for Dolly had 
given him a bit of St. John’s wort to tie round his 
neck, which she averred was efficacious enough to 
drive away all the Demons of the Hartz into the 
Red Sea. 

The morning broke without any improvement in 


THE NEIGHBORS' CHILDREN. 39 

the weather. The face of nature was clothed in 
gloom, which but too well corresponded with that 
which clouded the hearts of this Afflicted family. 
The rain poured down steadily throughout the day 
— the wind swept in fierce gusts through the park, 
stripping the half-denuded trees of the foliage that 
remained — the cattle clustered together in groups 
by the hedges — and it was, altogether, a season 
when the shelter of home was to be denied ; yet 
the grey dawn had scarcely struggled into exist- 
ence, ere the servants and retainers were out to 
renew their search. 

Great"was the sorrow that now ruled in that so 
lately happy household. Lady Lindenburg, with 
her husband far distant, and bowed down to the 
very earth by the weight of her affliction, was yet 
obliged to order the arrangements necessary for the 
recovery of the corpses of her son and Eugene ; 
but with the self-command she ever maintained, 
her own feelings were kept under restraint, and 
her habitual piety led her to seek comfort from a 
source whence it is never denied — in prayer. The 
evening brought the Baron back to the home he 
had so lately left ; and night’s deep shadows had 
already shrouded the forest, when the men engaged 
in dragging the river returned from their ineffectual 
search. There was nothing more that could be 
done, and the sorely-stricken parents endeavored 
to be silent under the Unerring Hand that had so 


40 THE NEIGHBOR^’ CHILDREN. 

mysteriously wounded them. As children of a 
wise and benevolent Parent, who until this moment 
had never veiledWiis face in darkness, but showered 
blessings and sunlight on their heretofore happy 
path, they felt that in this present dark dispensa- 
tion it was not theirs to question, but submit ; they 
therefore gave up their Felix as one they were no 
more to meet until the earth should be called to 
judgment, and the sea to give up its dead. It 
w r ould have been a comfort to have looked upon the 
corpse of their fair-haired boy, and visited the grave 
where the dear dust reposed ; but since this could 
not be, his memory was sepulchred deep in those 
parental hearts, and cherished with an affection 
w r hich needed no marble to remind them of the one 
who faded, even in his budding, from their sight. 

“I told you so, Eric ; I told you so,” said Dolly, 
as the servants once more gathered around the 
kitchen-fire, to give utterance to the many conjec- 
tures that had arisen on their failure to find the 
bodies, “ I know’d you ’d never get them. Ah ! 
poor Master Felix ! he will never be among us 
again, with his laughing blue eyes, and his merry 
ways. I hope, since he is not drowned, for if he 
w T as the body w T ould have turned up somehow, that 
it was the Rubezuhl that took him away, for they 
say he always uses the children well that he carries 
off; but the Zernbock ” 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


41 


“It is a pity,” interrupted the fat cook, “that 
one of them had n’t carried you off, and kept you 
awhile, to stop your talking ; but they were too 
sensitive to do that, for they knew that one tongue 
like yours would set them all in profusion.” 

Dolly now began to flare up ; and, forgetful of 
the sad occurrence which had called up the mention 
of the mountain demons, she began fiercely to 
retaliate on the cook with the very member that 
that worthy personage had deemed too noisy for 
goblin land ! 

“I should not wonder, Madam Greasyface,” she 
began, “if the Zernbock made you a visit ; he only 
comes after ugly people.” 

“None of your arguevatins ,” interrupted the 
fat cook, “there comes Mother Spiller — she’ll 
soon settle you;” and indeed, at the same moment, 
the old lady entered the kitchen with an injunction 
that all would retire to rest as speedily as possible, 
as it was desirable that the house should be kept 
perfectly quiet. There was no gainsaying this ; 
the strangers departed to their homes — the ser- 
vants one by one went off to their several places 
of rest — the lights were all extinguished — and, 
save the melancholy chirp of the cricket on the 
kitchen-hearth, deep and mournful stillness reigned 
over the sorrowing household of Steinrode. 

4 * 


42 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


CHAPTER III. 

“ This is a lonesome place for one like you.” 

Eor many days Lady Yon Grosse gave way to 
the most boisterous demonstrations of grief, calling 
constantly on the name of Eugene, until those 
kind friends under whose roof she was dwelling, 
began to fear for her reason. In her day of pros- 
perity, she had never looked beyond the enjoyment 
of the present life ; and when the day of calamity 
came, she had no strong-hold to which she could 
flee. All that the good aunt Angela could urge 
was without avail ; she turned a deaf ear to the 
admonitions, soothing as they were, of one whom 
she insisted could not feel as a mother who had lost 
her only son. She declared the sun of her exist- 
ence was forever darkened, and that God had dealt 
hardly and unjustly with her; and that rebellious 
spirit, which alarmed, by the violence of its mur- 
mur#, the kind old maid, was in nowise subdued 
until Lady Lindenburg, conquering the sorrow of 
her own heart, went herself to her suffering guest, 
and showed her that great as was the calamity that 
had fallen on both, there was no affliction sent by 
the hand of God that he would not give them 
strength to bear. 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 43 

The calm, pale brow of the mother, plainly 
attested the depth of her own feelings while she 
thus benevolently attempted to give comfort to 
another, who, although not more severely stricken 
than herself, had yet to learn that sweet and sooth- 
ing assurance which comes like a whisper from the 
spirit-land — the still small voice that is heard amid 
the tumult and the storm of grief, which bids the 
trusting mourner remember, “ He doeth all things 
well and she felt herself strengthened to better 
bear her own burden by the effort she made to 
assist another, to whom the same ability had not 
been given. Lady Yon Grosse was touched by her 
words, for she could neither doubt their sincerity, 
nor question the mother’s right to feel ; both were 
exhibited by the unmistakeable manner of the 
bereft, who, bowing meekly before the mandate 
“Be still, and know that I am God,” was yet 
ready to pour drops of consolation on the wounds 
of another, while her own heart was bleeding at 
every pore. Awed, therefore, by the majesty of a 
grief that, whilst it mourned, yet did not murmur, 
that of Lady Yon Grosse became much lessened in 
its violence, when, for the first time in her life, she 
began to think. Until the day she had left Haus- 
dorff, her time had passed in one giddy round of 
pleasure. She could not believe but that her path 
was to be strewn with flowers, even to the end of 
her earthly course ; but of that end itself she 


44 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


suffered no thought to intrude — its unwelcome 
shadow would have dimmed her sunshine. Her 
time, since the destruction of Hausdorff, and their 
consequent ruin, had b^n spent in lamenting their 
hard fate, or regrets for the pleasures she could no 
longer procure or enjoy. The first stroke sent by 
the Unerring had failed to produce the salutary 
effect always intended by afflictive dispensations, 
and now a second and more severe one was sent to 
repeat the teaching of the lesson ; and, in great 
mercy, at this time it did not fail. 

She now began to see how faulty she had been 
in committing the care of her children to strangers 
— ifi turning over to hirelings the performance of 
those sacred duties which is peculiarly the charge 
of mothers, and ought to be their pride (for woman 
is nowhere so truly great as in the nursery, since 
it is there that the first good seed is to be sown, 
the first gems of an evil nature to be crushed) ; 
and to the self-will and steady disobedience in 
which they had ever been permitted to indulge, 
the present calamity might mainly be attributed. 
Deeply now did she regret the time she had spent 
in the whirl of pleasure — such pleasure as if at 
this period offered to her, could not give one 
moment’s soothing to her pained spirit ; and 
Melanie, who, notwithstanding the loss of her 
brother, by constantly practising the same perverse 
and disobedient behaviour she had ever done, keep- 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 45 

ing constantly by its exhibition before her the evil 
effects of her own negligence in regard to her 
children, was anything but a comfort, since it only 
deepened her self-reproach, and served to point her 
conscience with a sharper sting. 

From the date of this sore affliction a very per- 
ceptible change was observed to have taken place 
in the family at Steinrode. The flood of their first 
high tide of grief had passed away ; but not with- 
out having left deep and lasting traces. Their 
cheerfulness gradually returned ; but the same 
boisterous merriment never. Their natural mirth, 
“ the child of good-nature and conscious innocence 
of heart,” was for a space subdued ; but Time, as 
he bore them along his stream, blunted (as he 
always does,) the sharp edge of their sorrow, and 
it again beamed forth, but never so brightly as 
before. Herman greatly missed his companion in 
study and in play ; the girls their fair-haired 
laughing brother, who was the merriest of them all, 
and whose joyous spirit burned ever with a light that 
communicated its own radiance to the rest. The 
Baron w r as grave. Lady Lindenburg — ah ! there was 
little change in her, save her cheek was paler, and 
her eyes more dove-like; there was that within that 
passeth show — a mother’s heart has depths it is not 
easy to fathom. Aunt Angela spent now the 
greater part of her time with them ; and pitying 
the neglected and self-willed Melanie, she benevo- 


46 THE neighbors’ children. 

lently set herself to work to eradicate the faults 
engendered by her erroneous education, and to 
prepare her mind for the reception of better 
things ; a task in which, although at first it did 
not promise much success to the good old maid, 
yet with that spirit of true charity which “ hopeth 
and endureth all things,” she yet determined to 
persevere in her efforts, trusting that He in whose 
name she sowed the “good seed” would give the 
increase. 

Thus the family gradually resumed the occupa- 
tions and studies which the sad event we have 
related had for a time interrupted. The Baron, 
who had not given up his kind intentions in favour 
of the peasant boy, and. since the loss of Felix, was 
more kindly disposed, now not only permitted 
that Ehrenfried should come to the castle to re- 
ceive instruction from Mr. Bulow with his own 
children, but was determined, if the boy proved to 
be what he hoped, to build a cottage in the village 
for his mother. Thus in doing and planning good, 
they found balm for their own wounded spirits ; 
and although the winter set in to them in unusual 
gloom — though the long corridors and high-roofed 
hall looked vacant and dreary — though they could 
not discern the same sparkling beauty in the snow- 
wreaths, and uttered no jests as they used to do 
when they looked at “ old Zobtenbug” for signs of 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 47 

the weather, the winter passed; and not without 
blessings and comfort. 

Christmas came and New Year; but not with 
the bright anticipation and childish enjoyment of 
the preceding — no; remembrance was too busy 
for that ; yet not so busy as to forget there were 
others to be made happy, although they were sad. 
No brightly illuminated Christmas-tree was placed 
in the hall or parlour ; but the poor of the village, 
and tenants on the estate, received their annual 
presents, and more largely than usual. A long 
table was spread in the servants’ hall, where the 
poor were feasted with a good dinner, and “ indeed 
where they did eat,” as Dolly confided to Eric, 
“ as if they had never eaten before, and never 
thinking of poor Master Felix, whom she was now 
morally certain the Riibezahl had spirited away.” 

Public notice had been given of the disappear- 
ance of the two boys, and rewards offered for the 
recovery of the bodies ; for few or none questioned 
that they were drowned. But the winter passed, 
and no more light was thrown on the mysterious 
affair than on the day of its happening ; and the 
uncertainty of those who at first were inclined to 
doubt gradually yielded to belief. 

Spring once more spread her green mantle over 
the earth ; the hedges bloomed in flowery beauty, 
the garden stood forth in all its pride of budding 
loveliness, and the lark, mounting high in the 


48 THE NEIGHBORS’ children. 

heavens, sung his songs of praise. Nature came 
forth from her long wintry sleep in renovated 
beauty ; but spring to the mourner’s heart brings 
little joy. The contrast is too painful ; the 
trees bud out and blossom, the flowers burst forth 
in gladness from the earth ; the forest wears again 
her vernal garb, and stands forth enrobed in bright 
and freshend foliage — there is no missing in 
Nature for what winter destroyed, since spring re- 
turns all ; but the grave never gives back what it 
shrouds within its dark bosom. Does not every 
mourner feel his sad bereavement renewed yet 
more painfully as spring returns to Earth the 
treasures for which in winter she seemed to 
sorrow ; but to those who weep over the graves of 
the loved ones who made their world, she brings 
but sadness, if they look no further than the 
present imperfect state. But there are those who 
know of better things — those who, tracing in the 
“ unvarying serenity of purpose” with which the 
mighty mother performs her steady changes, bring- 
ing seed-time, and harvest in their appointed 
courses, the Wondrous Power by which she is alike 
governed and upheld — believe that for man, the 
favoured creature of God, there, too, is an awaken- 
ing — the glorious resurrection of the body is 
shadowed forth in all. But Nature’s budding 
beauty charmed not as heretofore ; there was no 
sympathy between these scenes of their happy 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 49 

childhood and their present changed feelings — 
they were admired hut not enjoyed ; for Felix, the 
laughing, merry Felix, was no longer among them, 
and all seemed drear and desolate. Oh ! how 
changed every thing seemed ; yet the change was 
only within themselves ; for the same attention 
had been paid to every thing as formerly, but they 
could not romp and play as they had been used to 
do. Melanie had been throughout far less troubled 
than the rest; she had never loved her brother; 
he had often ridiculed her for her fashionable airs, 
betrayed her to her governess, and, besides, was 
constantly quarrelling with her. And on the 
whole, she felt rather better than usual ; for since 
his absence she had not felt her self-love wounded 
by her mother’s partiality for her son, a pre- 
ference which she never cared to conceal ; and by 
constantly mortifying Melanie, had the bad effect 
of hardening her heart against all affection for 
Eugene. 

Time brought a salutary change to Lady Yon 
Grosse ; sorrow and misfortune forcing her to give 
up the hollow enjoyments to which she had hereto- 
fore sacrificed her whole existence, gave her space 
to consider how false was the light by which she 
had been dazzled ; how foolishly — nay, wickedly, 
she had acted in her negligent raising of her 
children. She never suspected to what an extent 
Melanie’s evil disposition had been fastened, until 
5 


50 THE NEIGHBORS* CHILDREN. 

at this time, when she was obliged to have her con- 
tinually at her side ; and how bitter was the pang 
that shot through her heart at the constant 
evidence the selfish girl gave of not being able to 
bestow one solitary ray of comfort on her suffering 
parents at a period when it would be joy to be able 
to cling to a promise afforded by her, of which, 
alas ! there was not the least sign. Melanie loved 
no one but herself ; she knew not, neither could be 
made to comprehend the glorious feeling of sacri- 
ficing our own happiness for the sake of procuring 
it for another. No thought, therefore, that by 
duty and kindness she might mitigate, if she could 
not remove, her mother’s deep sorrow, ever entered 
her mind; therefore she did not attempt it, and 
moved about as usual among the subdued group, 
the only one whose brow wore no shadow of the 
sad event which had plunged them all into gloom. 

With great pain, therefore, Lady Yon Grosse 
saw the number of faults that had taken deep root 
in her daughter’s heart ; and now she did not only 
watch with all a mother’s care to check their rapid 
growth, but was resolved to make every sacrifice 
of herself, in order to retrieve, as far as possible, 
the time she had lost. 

The great bereavement she had met with in the 
loss of Eugene, had produced a tempest in her 

soul which had not passed away without effect 

the mists which had enveloped her mental being 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 51 

were all dispersed — misfortune had raised the veil 
which heretofore bounded her vision only to this 
world, and prevented her looking beyond it ; and 
Adversity, like storms that are said to purify the 
ocean, leaving, when their fury is spent, precious 
pearls upon the shore, had brought forth fruits 
more costly than they ; and now that she learned 
to look beyond the grave, and to know that man 
was not made to revel through life’s short day, but 
for active usefulness, she was anxious that they 
should find a place where she might at once begin 
the education of her daughter. 

The situation of forest-warden, which had been 
so contemptuously refused when offered by a friend 
in the first stage of their misfortune, was still open 
for their acceptance; and now so changed had 
Lady Yon Grosse become, that it seemed to be the 
very spot she desired, and she besieged her husband 
with petitions that they might be at once permitted 
to remove thither, believing it to be, according to 
her new views, the surest atmosphere for the build- 
ing up of her daughter’s mental health. 

The Count, less changed than herself, was tardy 
in responding to her wishes; he still hoped that 
something more suited to his tastes might be found 
in the capital, but as nothing turned up there for 
his benefit, and his wife not relaxing her importu- 
nities, he at last yielded to them. 

It was on a glorious day towards the end of 


52 THE neighbors’ children. 

summer, when the golden grain waved ripening for 
the harvest in the brilliant sunshine, that the Lady 
Yon Grosse’s family left the hospitable dwelling at 
Steinrode, where they had for so long a time been 
sheltered, to begin the journey towards their new 
and far-distant home, which lay in the very bosom 
of the wild and wonder-teeming Hartz. 

With great emotion the two families parted from 
each other. Companions in suffering, they had 
been brought nearer to each other, and so obtained 
more intimate knowledge of their individual cha- 
racters than could have been accomplished by any 
other means, and that acquaintance had not been 
wdthout profit to both. Lady Lindenburg was 
glad to find her neighbor was not the heartless 
being she at one time appeared to be ; approving 
highly of the course she proposed taking with 
Melanie, inasmuch as she not only showed a great 
deal of good sense, more than any one had given 
her credit for, but displayed evidence of lofty and 
proper feelings, such as proved her worthy of the 
friendship of the good ; while on the other hand, 
Lady Yon Grosse, struck with the Christian con- 
sistency displayed by the Steinrode parents, as 
well in their first happiness — in their well dis- 
ciplined family — as in this their sore trial, and the 
calm submissive manner in which they bowed to 
meet the stroke, the courteous and unvarying kind- 
ness taught by gospel spirits of hospitality, and 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 53 

extended for so long a time to herself and family 
— all had taught her that there was truth in the 
religion that they possessed; and by this pure 
example her heart was opened to receive its teach- 
ings. They parted then with regret from each 
other, there being but little likelihood of their ever 
meeting again ; for long and dangerous paths lay 
between their several homes, and circumstances 
seemed at present to forbid even a distant prospect 
of re-union. 

Leaving the family at Steinrode to pursue their 
accustomed routine of life, we will go to the Hartz 
with Lady Yon Grosse, and see her transformed 
into a forester’s wife, dwelling amongst and like 
the poor whom she had formerly so much despised. 

Her husband was an amiable but w T eak man, 
without half the force of character that belonged 
to herself, and as such was little able to sustain 
her with counsel or co-operation in the task which, 
to prosecute successfully, filled her whole soul, and 
awoke energies within her to fojlow a task in which 
she vainly endeavoured to arouse him to a participa- 
tion. 

“He could not see,” he said, “that Melanie was 
worse than others ; he thought she should not give 
herself so much unnecessary trouble ; the girl would 
do well enough. For his part he would leave nothing 
undone to get them out of this dreadful place — he 
5 * 


54 THE neighbors’ children. 

was sure he should yet get an office in the capital, 
and then they could live as well as ever.” 

These remarks would silence, though they did 
not change the purpose of Madame Yon Grosse, 
as she now preferred being called. Her heart had 
been too fully awakened, and by a power that 
teaches too thoroughly to be misled by such 
sophistry ; so she let him talk on, resolved to be 
firm in the prosecution of what she now knew to 
be her duty. 

They travelled many days ere they reached the 
solitary spot where they were to find a home so 
different from that to which they had been accus- 
tomed. Melanie was particularly sullen during 
the journey. Nature stood forth in unspeakable 
magnificence ; mountain peaks that rose far above 
their heads, bathing their summits in the clouds ; 
chains of dark and sterile rocks that skirted the 
base of these mountains, or some river shore, 
crowned on the highest point with heavy masses 
of time-worn towns, contrasted vividly with the 
green of the valleys and blue mirror of the streams 
that wound their crystal currents through them to 
the sea. The ruins on the rock served to remind 
the traveller of the genius of departed power, the 
genius that delighted in war and bloodshed, looking 
gloomily down on the triumphs achieved by peace, 
in the vine-clad hill, or fruitful valley; but for 
such contemplations Melanie had no taste. They 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 55 

approached nearer and nearer to the mountains; the 
forest grew thicker, and the scenes more gloomy ; 
and twilight reigned within its shadow long ere the 
sun had withdrawn his rays from the earth. To a 
small house in the very bosom of the deep wood, 
surrounded by a neatly paled garden, they bent 
their steps, for they had to leave the carriage in 
which they travelled at the outer edge of the 
forest, and as there was nothing hut a footpath, 
they -were obliged to walk the intervening distance. 
A pair of large and branching antlers nailed on 
the high peaked gables of the house by way of 
ornament, showed that this was the forest lodge ; 
and by those who had not known such luxury as 
our Yon Grosse acquaintances had been accustomed 
to, might have been hailed as a very comfortable 
home. But it is contrast that causes the pang 
in reverses that constitute a great deal of the 
suffering that many experience on a change of cir- 
cumstances. Here there was really enough to be 
found for man’s daily wants — shelter, plenty of 
food, and means to procure comforts and clothing ; 
but those whose lives have been spent in gilded 
halls, cannot at once realize that “ man wants but 
little;” and, therefore, our friends gazed in aston- 
ishment at the small rooms, naked floors, and 
common furniture made only of wdiite pine, clean 
indeed, but no better than that used by the vil- 
lagers of HausdorfF. A good substantial supper of 


5G THE neighbors’ children. 

broiled game partly soothed the disgust of Melanie 
and her father ; but Lady Yon Grosse was satisfied 
— she wanted solitude, and here she was glad 
to be secluded, where no one knew her, or the 
history of her misfortunes, for the occurrence of 
which she felt herself so greatly to blame. 

The Count soon began to love his forest craft, 
and became somewhat interested; but Melanie 
suffered the most severely from the unpleasant 
novelty of their altered condition. Never having 
been accustomed to pursue the slightest employ- 
ment that promised usefulness, she found the 
tedium of her solitary life absolutely frightful. 
Lying at a distance from the high-road, they saw 
no passers-by, and neighbours were too far off ; and 
besides, being all of the poorer classes — colliers, 
laborers, wood-cutters, and so forth — the compa- 
nionship would have availed little to the Yon 
Grosse family, even had they become acquainted 
with those who in rank, tastes, and education, were 
so different from themselves. One peasant maiden, 
to carry water and milk their cow, was their only 
servant. 

Madame Yon Grosse undertook the guidance of 
her own little household ; she spared not herself in 
the prosecution of her new duties in this, to her, 
unwonted course of life, and she encouraged 
Melanie to, and insisted upon, her faithful per- 
formance of her allotted share of the labor. With 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 57 

what reluctance did the latter encounter the heat 
and smoke of the kitchen, when her mother de- 
manded her assistance, for Marie was mostly busied 
with out-door w’ork ; and how unwillingly did she 
dip her hands in w T ater, fearful that their whiteness 
and delicacy should be spoiled. But it is astonish- 
ing how soon these notions pass olf when their 
possessor is thrown among those who think little 
of such things. There was no one to admire her 
fashionable tournure — her graceful carriage ; her 
French phrases, taught by Mademoiselle Adele, 
were laid aside as useless ; for Marie, understand- 
ing nothing hut the rude German spoken in her 
native hills, stared in astonishment whenever she 
heard them uttered; and Treva, the forest-boy 
who aided her father, w 7 as a Hungarian, and obliged 
for the most part to be silent, for his knowledge 
of German was as yet very imperfect. 

The late Countess, laying aside all that she had 
at one time imagined she could not exist without, 
accommodated herself wonderfully well to her 
strange situation. The new light that had broken 
in upon her hitherto darkened heart, had wrought 
a change in her mental world; a transformation 
which none but those who “ have passed from dark- 
ness unto light,” can comprehend. She went about 
her household occupations with quite as much 
cheerfulness as could be expected, and perhaps 
more ; for the image of her lost boy still existed 


58 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


in all the vividness of its first coloring in her mo- 
ther’s heart; but the same spirit that had once 
“brooded over the face of the waters,” and 
brought the rude elements into harmony and order, 
had shed its peaceful influence there. Tumult, and 
passion, and strife, had forever subsided; old 
things had passed away, and, seen in another and 
a better light, all had become new. “ Be still, and 
know that I am God,” was the whisper that brought 
her back to duty when a spirit of murmuring 
threatened to arise; and the thought that time and 
opportunity for saving her spoiled and neglected 
daughter had been given, swallowed up every dis- 
position to repine, in thankfulness for a boon as 
little deserved, as it had at one time been little 
desired. 

Melanie scarcely recognised her mother, so great 
was the change. Would that we could say her own 
was as rapid ! But the force of example, whether 
good or bad, bears insensibly on all; and now, 
accompanied by a mother’s prayers, it was impos- 
sible it should altogether fail. With great wonder, 
therefore, she saw her perform occupations cheer- 
fully, or as a matter of course, from which, not 
long since, she would have shrunk as degrading ; 
and Melanie, who did not want for sense, began 
voluntarily to take her part ; and she found it of 
use to herself, inasmuch as she was happier, and 


THE NEIGHBORS* CHILDREN. 59 

had less time left her to spend in regrets for the 
gay pleasures they had lost with Hausdorff. 

What great kindness is ever mingled with the 
discipline of our Heavenly Father! what drops of 
mercy are ever poured in the bitter cup of human 
suffering ! none ever drank it yet without this mix- 
ture, and to none is accorded unmitigated woe. 
The same Arbiter that pronounced the curse on 
sin that doomed man to earn his “ bread by the 
sweat of his brow till he again return to the earth 
from whence he was taken,” has lightened his own 
seemingly heavy sentence by rendering labor plea- 
sant, and so those once spoiled children of fortune, 
now condemned to forest-life, found out. Melanie 
experienced the possibility of being able to exist 
without the tableaux, children’s parties, and the- 
atres, which she had considered as the very cream 
of enjoyment during their residence in the capital ; 
or even the fine clothing, parrots, doves, gold-fish, 
and toys, with which, at a later period, she had 
wished to awaken the envy of the neighbors’ chil- 
dren, when they visited Hausdorff. 

The calamity of one night had caused all these 
to vanish like the winter’s snow, that falls upon the 
running stream; and yet here, without any of 
those resources even by the aid of which time used 
to pass heavily, existence could not only be en- 
dured, but was found to have charms. 

There was a time when she would have disdained 


60 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

to notice a being so humble as their poor Marie. 
But now, cut off from all other companionship, 
when the weather was bad, and they were confined 
within doors, she listened with interest to the tales 
she would tell of her native and far-distant valley, 
where she had left parents, and sisters, and bro- 
thers ; and as her cheek would glow, and her eyes 
glisten, as she spoke of her dear ones far away, 
Melanie learned that human sympathies exist in as 
full force, if not greater, in the hearts of the lowly, 
than in those of whom the world and its follies 
have divided the affections. 

Instead of lolling in a luxurious carriage, in- 
dulging in thoughts of how she was to excite the 
envy or admiration of those she was going to visit, 
her only recreation was a walk through the forest, 
and to a lover of nature none other is so delight- 
ful ; but the poor girl’s taste had never been trained 
in this direction, and the mysterious and wondrous 
treasures to be found in the stores of that benevo- 
lent and provident benefactress, were as yet as a 
sealed book to her. 

She had not learned to trace the mighty Hand 
so visibly displayed around her — the rude and 
knotted oaks chronicled no history for her perusal 
— the sterile rock and barren plain were but the 
sterile rock and barren plain on which the sun 
shone, or the rain fell. They speak with a loud 
voice to those who look through “ nature, up to 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 61 

nature’s God;” but to her they were mute. She 
saw the eagle as he soared over the cliffs — the 
clouds that floated through the blue expanse of 
Heaven — but she had never thought by what 
Power they were sustained. Surrounded, then, by 
a source of pleasure of the loftiest and purest kind, 
she was for a long time insensible to the enjoy- 
ments within her reach. The sweet odor of the 
pines was unheeded, as in her forest-walk she 
brushed their hanging branches aside ; the breeze 
that swayed the oaks — the zephyrs that whispered 
in the foliage — the many-colored dyes with which 
late autumn was now clothing the moss, shrubs, 
and plants, were viewed with indifference. The 
deep and solemn stillness alarmed her — she trem- 
bled and started at the flitting of every bird. 

But it is impossible to dwell thus alone, as she 
was, amid the potent charms of nature, and not be 
operated upon by their influence. She will com- 
mune with us whether we are willing or not ; and 
as partaking a portion of herself, we must listen — 
the universal mother claims her right, and we yield 
to her benign and gentle teaching. And so our 
poor Melanie, though she at first understood not 
the voice that spoke to her from this consecrated 
loneliness, telling her that God is not only every 
where, but every where good, at length began to 
awake to better feelings ; although it was long ere 
she comprehended why or how they came. She 
6 


62 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


thought of her brother, and wept. Ah ! what 
would she not have given that he were once more 
with her to share her cottage-life — that she might 
be with him in his sports in the wood — that they 
might converse together as they used to do ? She 
would no more be jealous of, nor quarrel with him ; 
no ! in that lonely forest-dwelling, she would be to 
him a tender and affectionate sister. The thought 
that all her repentance was in vain — that he was 
gone forever — began to soften the heart hitherto 
so hard, and awoke in her a determination to try 
and make herself the happiness of those parents 
who had suffered so greatly; and she found her 
own in the effort. Nevertheless, the remembrance 
of Eugene still kept its place as vividly as ever, 
and served not only to strengthen her in her new 
resolution, but was the constant subject of her 
meditation during the cheerless walks she took 
through the forest by herself. 

Little by little, however, she became sensible of 
the charms by which she was surrounded. She 
was quite happy if she found some late straw- 
berries that she could carry to her mother, or 
discovered some flower of which she did not know 
the name, or watched some lively squirrel as he 
leaped from branch to branch, or bounded from 
tree to tree. How she wished he would let her 
catch him ! she wanted a companion so much, she 
would love him so well, and treat him so kindly ; 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 63 

but the nimble little fellow was perfectly satisfied 
where he was — his hollow tree was his palace, and 
that wild wood his park. He was not ambitious 
of human society ; he preferred cracking his nuts 
himself, and where he felt at liberty to eat as many 
as he wanted. Although she often ran after him, 
he was not frightened, he could trust to his own 
speed ; and there every day as she walked, she 
would see him in her path, gazing with his bright 
eyes upon her, nor turning to run until she came 
so close that she was sure he could not escape. 

One day she pursued him for nearly an hour, so 
closely, that sometimes she believed she had only 
to put out her hand and take him, when, quick as 
lightning, he would vanish, and, after a time, re- 
appear. A little out of humor at her want of 
success, and heated and weary with her fruitless 
chase, she sat down on a moss-covered rock to rest ; 
but as she rose to return, with horror and affright 
remarked that she was in an unknown part of the 
forest, and far from any road. Dreading that she 
had lost her way, she endeavored to retrace her 
steps ; but this was easier resolved on than accom- 
plished. A cold autumnal wind swept through the 
wood, and stripped the dry leaves from the 
branches, strewing them so thickly on the ground 
that the path, if there was any, could not be dis- 
covered ; her limbs trembled with weariness, her 
lips were parched with thirst, and she was tortured 


64 THE neighbors’ children. 

with fear. A few stunted bushes, on whose 
branches some small dark-blue berries, spared by 
the early frost, still hung, would have served 
to moisten her dry palate ; but she feared they 
were poisonous, and so did not venture to taste 
them. Involuntarily, at this moment she thought 
of her young friends the Lindenburgs — those 
“ dancing bears,” as poor Eugene and herself had 
nick-named them — how they two had ridiculed 
them for their studies in Botany and Natural 
History ; a very slender knowledge of which would 
at this moment have shown her that humble bil- 
berries could be eaten without danger, proving a 
cordial of nature’s providing for the denizens of 
the forest. The deepening shadows of the w T ood, 
on which the sun’s rays were now obliquely falling, 
increased her painful feelings by reminding her of 
the approach of night. What would become of a 
timid maiden, alone and half-fainting, in that lonely 
spot, exposed to the chill frost of autumn, and 
danger from wild and roaming beasts ? 

Among all the sins that had arrayed themselves 
to appear before her in these moments of horror, 
the thought of what she had once caused the 
amiable little Ehrenfried to suffer, gave her the 
most pain. She imagined how he had felt when 
alone in the Steinrode woods, where she had sent 
him on an errand she knew he could not accom- 
plish, enduring the pain from a lately-broken limb ; 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 65 

and repentance visited her now for all her mis- 
deeds, with a many-pointed scourge, from which 
she could not turn away. She wept bitterly, and 
acknowledged her punishment was just. 

“0, ha^e I not been wicked and foolish?” said 
she aloud, in poignant self-reproach ; “ surely God 
has sent this trouble upon me for my cruelty and 
falsehood. I must wander all night in this wild 
place, and perhaps be devoured by wolves. Oh ! 
if I can only find my way out, I will never — 
never do such wrong to any one again.” 

Setting forward with new determination, she 
pressed as resolutely onward as her failing strength 
permitted; stumbling, at times, over some fallen 
branch that was half-buried by the leaves that lay 
thickly strewn around. With eyes dimmed by the 
tears she had been shedding, she had failed to 
perceive that her way was becoming easier, the 
thicket less tangled, and the trees did not stand so 
close together ; until a cloud of smoke made itself 
visible above their tops, and the barking of a dog 
was heard. There was yet daylight enough to 
discern this, and most joyfully did Melanie hail 
both sight and sound. Fresh courage was given to 
her spirit, and new strength to her limbs ; a few 
moments more, and her heart beat in grateful sur- 
prise when she came in view of a small cottage, 
which, from its rude appearance, was probably the 
home of some wood-cutter. Towards it she hastily 
6 * 


66 THE neighbors’ children. 

bent her steps, for there she hoped to find some 
human beings who would direct or show her the 
way to her home. But all at once, struck by a 
sudden thought, she stood still. 

“Iiow do I know,” she inquired of herself, 
“ what kind of people live there ? They might be 
wicked and bad, like those that Marie tells me are 
found dwelling in the Hartz, and will take my 
clothing from me, and kill me. At any rate, they 
will not show me the way out of this dreadful 
forest wdthout I pay them for it, and how am I to 
do so when I have no money — I, that used to have 
so much;” and she began to woep anew. 

Poor little maiden ! how natural it was she 
should have no confidence in others, since her own 
previous life had been one tissue of falsehood and 
deceit. She knew of nothing but selfishness — 
supposed that to be poor people must necessarily 
be wicked — and never heard that God oftenest 
chose his treasured ones from among the lowliest 
children of the earth. 

As she thus stood lingering and irresolute before 
the hut, desiring yet fearing to ask assistance from 
the occupants, the door suddenly opened, and a 
little boy with light curly hair, and cheeks as red 
as any rose, bounded towards the spot where she 
remained as if rooted to the ground. He did not 
notice her in the now fading light, but called 
loudly, “ Micky ! Micky ! where are you hiding ? 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 67 

Ah! you sly villain! there you are,” he continued, 
and his bright eyes sparkled with joy as a young 
goat came springing from behind some bushes 
towards him, still holding some of the fresh leaves 
it had been nibbling at, between its small lips ; it 
skipped and played as though perfectly at home 
w r ith its merry companion, answering his bantering 
gestures with many a threatening bound, and pre- 
senting his bowed head to his youthful antagonist, 
as if in comic expectation of a sham battle. But 
just as the mimic warfare was about to commence, 
the boy espied our poor Melanie ; and bestowing 
no further attention on his goat, who yet reminded 
him of his vicinity by some tolerably rude thrusts, 
he approached her ; and one glance at the sweet 
and child-like countenance that met her gaze, was 
sufficient to disarm her of all suspicion. 

No one could look into those clear blue eyes and 
doubt ; his clothes were of the coarsest and poor- 
est kind, but clean and whole ; and, completely re- 
assured by his frank bearing and uncommon 
beauty, she enquired : 

“Do you know any one who could direct or 
place me on the road leading to the forest lodge ? 
I have lost my way.” 

“ I do not know myself, but I will go and ask 
my mother,” was the unembarrassed answer; “but 
won’t you come in and rest yourself a bit ? You 
must be tired and may be hungry, if you have 


68 THE neighbors’ children. 

been lost in the woods. It is funny you should be 
lost ; I could not get lost, for I know all the trees, 
and go ever so far into the forest every day. 
Come now — don’t be afraid of Micky ; he is only 
in fun when he pokes me so. I learned him to do 
so — indeed he won’t hurt you,” and as if to assure 
the timid maiden of his protection, he took her by 
the hand and led her towards the cottage. One 
year ago, and the haughty Melanie would have 
shrunk from a peasant’s touch as though contami- 
nation, like the plague-spot, should be communi- 
cated ; but the dawning light that had now begun, 
dimly, indeed, as yet, to disperse the dark night 
that enveloped her soul, had given her a wider 
and better range of vision ; but much had yet to 
be done and learned, until it should shine forth 
unto the full and perfect day. Grace only can 
effect such change ; for it is only by grace any are 
made to know themselves, God through his good- 
ness leading them to repentance. 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


69 


CHAPTER IY. 

“ They ask no more than simple nature gives, 

They love their mountains, and enjoy their storms.” 

The family that dwelt within the lowly hut that 
awakened both joy and suspicion in the mind of 
Melanie when she first espied it, was that of a col- 
lier, who, in his laborious task of attending his 
coal-pits, which were at a distance, was seldom able 
to be at home. The forests of the Hartz, seem- 
ingly inexhaustible, furnish great facilities for 
those w r ho can earn a livelihood in this manner ; 
and little is it to be wondered at, if some marvel- 
loving traveller, having no more than sufficient 
brains, encountering these smoke-begrimed men 
pursuing their lonely occupation in these vast soli- 
tudes, should have imagined them the same beings 
with which superstition peopled those regions long 
ago, and tradition has not failed to perpetuate. 
Melanie had never yet set foot in a place where 
poverty so great as this had made her dwelling ; 
yet it was not squalid poverty, for all was clean. 
Four children belonged to the humble pair, three 
of which were seated at a rude deal table, on which 
the mother was placing a large earthen dish of 
boiled milk : a heaped-up pile of coarse black bread 


TO 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


served on a plate of the same primitive kind of 
ware, showed that good appetites were expected to 
give zest to a meal from which an epicure would 
have turned with disgust, but which to these simple 
children of the forest was really luxurious. The 
father as usual was absent ; the mother was about 
to take her place at the table, when she missed 
Fritz, the little fellow who had gone out to look 
after his goat. 

“Fritz, where are you?” she cried aloud; “we 
are going to supper ; come quickly ! we are wait- 
ing to ask a blessing — never mind your goat. 
Ah !” she continued, as the hoy appeared in answer 
to the call, leading Melanie by the hand ; “ here 
we have an unexpected guest ; move closer together, 
children ; one of you — Henry — give the maiden 
your chair ; poor thing ! she looks faint and tired.” 

“ I am, indeed,” said the poor girl, timidly ; “ I 
have lost my way, and would gladly be directed 
how to find it back to the forest lodge, where my 
father lives as warden.” 

“ Yes, you surely shall be shown the way,” 
answered the mother, whose every feature beamed 
with good-humour and contentment; “Joseph my 
eldest hoy shall go with you ; hut now sit up to 
the table and eat some bread and milk ; you must 
be hungry after wandering so long ; and you will 
need something to strengthen you, for the road you 
have to go is a long one.” 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 71 

Melanie, exhausted by her long walk, sunk 
altogether on the wooden bench, where the children 
very cheerfully made room for her. The collier’s 
wife sought very carefully in the table-drawer for 
something she did not seem readily to find; but 
iittle Fritz, divining her intention, cried out, 
“Mother, you need not hunt for father’s spoon, for 
he took it with him ; ” then turning to Melanie 
he asked her, while his blue eyes beamed with 
sincerity, “will you eat with my spoon — I can 
wait until you are done ; see, my spoon is the 
prettiest of all, for it is new and shining.” 

The delicately nurtured damsel hesitated; but 
hunger and thirst, both severe masters, forced her 
to comply. How delightful did that fresh milk 
taste, though it was eaten with a pewter spoon, 
and from an earthen dish — how sweet was that 
coarse bread, though cut in thick slices, and par- 
taken of with a common labourer’s half-clothed 
children, such as, in the days of her prosperity 
and supercilious arrogance, she would not have 
suffered to come near her ! 

But they had no idea of the distinction which 
rank imposes ; but free as their native oaks, or the 
air that blows over their native hills, they felt on 
a perfect equality with their new guest, and could 
not have been made to comprehend that there was 
any difference between them, or by what law those 
differences which the world acknowledges were 


72 THE neighbors’ children. 

made. She was wandering and a stranger ; and 
by the law of the gospel, which they well knew, if 
they were ignorant of conventional forms, they 
had “ taken her in,” and through the one of 
natural hospitality had supplied her want, although 
their own stores were so scanty, without question 
or demur — did she think of those then to whose 
prayer she had often turned a deaf ear — of the 
hungry who, by her order, had been sent away ? 
They knew nothing of her rank, neither would 
they have cared for it if they had ; and happy to 
make the acquaintance of one so young, they 
began to question her with a familiarity which 
could not offend, since, although open, it was far 
from being impertinent. 

“ And so you live in this pretty forest the same 
as we do,” asked one: “I am sure you must love 
it — I would not live any place else. In the 
summer the nicest, largest strawberries ever you 
saw grow here ; and we often gather baskets full 
of the best mushrooms ; we will show you where 
to get them. And in the morning early it is so 
sweet to hear the birds sing before the sun is up — 
ah ! I am sure there is no other place in the whole 
world so beautiful as our forest.” 

“ I have not been here very long,” said Melanie 
in a low voice; “but, indeed, I am often right 
lonesome, and the time seems very long to me in 
this forest where one can see nothing but trees.” 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 73 

“ But don’t you work any?” said one of the little 
girls who had never been lonesome, although she 
had lived in a wood all her life. “ Don’t you spin, 
and carry wood in winter, and gather strawberries 
and mushrooms in summer, and play under the tall 
trees as we do?” and she fastened a pair of curious 
little eyes upon the stranger, as if she wanted to 
scrutinize more closely a person who was lonesome 
and did no work. 

“Do you not see, Magda,” said the eldest boy 
Joseph, “ that the stranger is not so poor as we 
are — it is likely she knows more than we do, and 
does more profitable and useful work than picking 
strawberries, or gathering mushrooms.” 

“Maybe not,” sighed Melanie to herself; but 
she said nothing, and cast her eyes in shame to the 
floor. After a few moments’ silence, and feeling 
considerably refreshed and rested, she begged 
with more courtesy than she had ever exhibited in 
the whole course of her life, “ Will you now be so 
kind as to show me on my way through the wood ? 
I am afraid my mother will be very uneasy about 
me.” 

Joseph w r as ready in a minute ; he took his cap 
from the nail where it hung, and stood beside the 
door, waiting Melanie’s movement. But she hesi- 
tated ; and her voice trembled as she thanked the 
good woman for her supper of milk, “for,” said 
7 


74 THE neighbors’ children. 

she to herself, “she will, perhaps, he angry with 
me, and will not let her boy show me the way when 
she finds I have no money to give her.” But sho 
found she was mistaken ; poor people can do favors 
without hope of reward. 

“We do not want money,” said the collier’s 
wife, in answer to her humble apology ; and reach- 
ing forth her hand, shook that of the little maiden 
heartily, bidding her “ God speed, and fail not to 
come again.” Fritz, on the claim of being 
Melanie’s first acquaintance, accompanied her a 
little way as she followed her bare-footed guide ; 
but his mother had told him not to go too far. 
With great regret he took leave of his new friend, 
saying, “ Good night ! good night ! don’t forget 
to come to see us soon again; I have so many 
pretty things to show you — a bird’s nest with six 
young ones — but we will not rob it; you will 
surely not forget to come ?” 

“No indeed I will not,” answered Mdanie, as 
she stooped down to pat his curly hair ; when, 
somewhat to her surprise, and, what is strange, 
knowing her as w T ell as w T e do, not at all to her dis- 
pleasure, the little fellow threw his arms around 
her neck and kissed her heartily. The next mo- 
ment he was out of sight, but his merry voice call- 
ing out, “ Micky, Micky, come now and run after 
me,” was heard, and his joyous laugh, as he amused 
himself with his playful goat, resounded through 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 75 

the forest, until distance precluded the further 
hearing. 

By this time the moon had risen high in the 
heavens, and peering down through the nearly 
naked branches, danced in flickering shadows upon 
the ground, and illumed the forest with her silver 
light. Even Melanie was not altogether insensible 
to the holy influence of the sylvan beauty that, 
softened by the garish light of day, speaks not 
only to the imagination, but to the heart ; and her 
heart, prepared as it gradually was becoming for 
the reception of good, was open to the silent 
eloquence of the appeal. The tall trees that 
looked like white-stoled priests in some lofty 
temple, the night breeze that whispered through 
them, and spoke its own mysterious language; the 
stars that moved in their potential courses, looking 
brighter, as seen through the frosty atmosphere, 
than usual — all were appealing to her better feel- 
ings, and contributing to strengthen the dawning 
interest she was beginning to have in better things. 
The scene of Christian contentment she had 
witnessed at the collier’s cottage, the blessings 
asked in the true spirit of humble piety over a 
meal more frugal than any she had ever seen set 
before any family in her life, the cheerful and 
thankful enjoyment they exhibited in the reception 
of blessings she deemed so moderate — added 
greatly to the view she was beginning to have of 


76 THE neighbors’ children. 

realities more important than those vain shadows, 
as she now recognized them which she had been 
pursuing. 

Wondering at the confidence exhibited by her 
little companion, as he threaded the forest when 
no path was visible, she could not forbear asking 
him by what knowledge he did so. 

“ Joseph,” she said at last, “are you sure you 
are going right ? how do you know you are on the 
right road to the lodge ? If I could stray so in 
the middle of daylight, is there not danger that 
we may both get lost here in the night ?” 

“ It would not be easy for me to lose myself in 
any part of this wood,” said Joseph, laughing ; 
“ and, besides, it is not dark, for the moon shines 
so bright up there ; but I often go when it is pitch 
dark, to relieve father at the coal-pits, and I have 
never lost my w T ay.” 

“ Well, but how do you know that you are in 
the right direction ?” enquired Melanie ; “ how do 
you know now that we are going towards the 
hunter’s lodge ?” 

“Father has learned me how to know that,” 
answered the boy ; “ you see that bright star up 
there,” pointing to the polar star, “ that there* one 
never moves like the others ; and I have only to 
keep it before, or on one side, or behind me, as I 
wish to go, and know where I am ; and then, too, 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 77 

there is the moss on the trees, and the bark — 0, I 
can tell very well where I am.” 

Melanie’s thoughts involuntarily reverted to her 
young friends of Steinrode ; she had been mortified 
by, although she pretended to despise, their superior 
knowledge in plainer and more useful studies than 
those she had spent her whole time in pursuing, 
and now she was yet more ashamed when she was 
made to feel how much less she knew than this 
rude forest boy. She had never heard Mademoi- 
selle Adele explain the places or motions of the 
heavenly bodies any more than she had been 
directed to contemplate the workings of the 
Mighty Power which upholds them in their 
courses ; she did not even know to what sciences 
such studies belonged. But desirous not to appear 
altogether ignorant, she ventured, though hesita- 
tingly, to remark, “ I suppose your father must 
teach you Natural — ” here she stopped; she did 
not know what term to conclude with ; of Astron- 
omy she neither knew the name or derivation ; but 
she had heard the terms of Natural Philosophy, 
Natural History, or Natural Science, used; but 
she really did not know which one would best 
apply, so she broke off suddenly. 

“Natural what?” asked her surprised compan- 
ion ; “ I do not know what you mean ; but I sup- 
pose it is something you find in books. Father 
tells me people have a great many ; but in our 

7 * 


78 THE neighbors’ children. 

house we have only two besides our primer and 
spelling-books — a prayer book and bible ; but see, 
there i‘s your home ; ” and Melanie, turning her 
eyes as he directed, saw the white walls and paling 
of the garden belonging to the forest lodge dis- 
tinctly through the trees. A light glimmered 
through the window, and Melanie at this moment 
felt more of a home-feeling than she had ever done 
in her whole life before. Full of gratitude, she 
begged her youthful guide to enter, that he might 
receive the reward he so well merited ; but he was 
steady in refusing. 

“I cannot, indeed,” he said; “I must now go 
in an opposite direction ; it is time to relieve father 
at the coal-pits; he will be expecting me before 
this — so good night, and take care not to lose 
yourself again.” 

“ Good night,” was Melanie’s response. 

“ Good night,” he again repeated; and turning 
away, burst forth in a merry song, the cheerful 
carol of which was heard long after he had 
vanished amid the lofty trees. 

Melanie, now that her mind had not much to 
occupy it, dwelt much upon this little adventure ; 
the love of human companionship is so natural, 
that it gave her no small pleasure to have found 
out that there were neighbors so near, although 
they belonged to a class that, a short time before, 
she would have spurned at all intercourse with as 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 79 

degrading. And now she had not only eaten, and 
held companionship with them, but absolutely loved 
to think upon those happy-looking children, that 
bloomed in that solitude, fresh and rosy as the 
wild hedge-roses, that enlivened the green same- 
ness of the forest with their presence and their 
hue ; and scarcely conscious of her own intention, 
and almost with surprise to herself, she one day, 
not very long after, found herself on the way to 
the collier’s hut. Joseph had given her some 
directions as to the course she was to take until 
she reached a certain path, which would lead her 
forward safely ; being one trodden by themselves 
daily in passage to and from the coal-pits. 

Who would now have recognised our haughty 
Melanie, as she amused herself for hours in that 
lowly room, with a collier’s children, cutting out 
pictures in paper for them, and teaching them 
plays ; and at last, with great trouble to herself, 
made a rag-doll with her own hands, and was fully 
repaid for the effort it cost her, by the shouts of 
joy which testified its approval. Tor the first time 
in her life, she felt that she was loved and wel- 
comed on her own account ; rank was of no value 
in a place like this, and she no longer shrunk from 
the familiarity of those peasant children, as she 
had done from the humble courtesies -of the amiable 
Ehrenfried, for here all were equal. She touched 
the hand, although hardened by toil, held out to 


80 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

greet her by the bright-eyed mother, without any 
repugnance. She permitted the gleeful children 
to kiss her own, that held the little basket into 
which they curiously peeped, for they knew it 
contained treasures for themselves. In thus con- 
tributing to the happiness of others, she made her 
own ; and finding how valuable an antidote em- 
ployment was against ennui in a place where there 
was no dancing nor dressing for occupation, nor 
monkeys and parrots for amusement, and recalling 
the worsted spinning and knitting of the Linden- 
burgs, which she had so much laughed at, she now 
filled up her own spare time in similar useful works, 
in the shape of many caps, comforters, and even 
stockings, which under her mother’s assistance, she 
knitted for her new friends. Gradually, thus she 
began to love work, and hate idleness ; and al- 
though, at first, all did not go very smoothly — the 
spinning wearied her, and the knitting-needles hurt 
her hands — the pride she felt when her task w r as 
accomplished, the pleasure she had in bestowing 
the fruits of her perseverance, more than compen- 
sated her for the efforts she made in these attempts 
to conquer self. Nor was this the only good effect 
of the great change adversity was slowly but surely 
effecting in the character of Melanie ; for in pro- 
portion as she tried to be kind and useful to those 
who were not of her own immediate household, so 
she became gentle and affectionate at home, and 


TIIE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 83 

particularly soothing and obedient to her mother — • 
diffusing sunlight where she formerly chilled. 

Her time, therefore, passed pleasantly; but by 
degrees, as the season advanced, she had to remain’ 
more within doors. Stern blasts sweeping down 
from the mountains, and cold rains, heralded the 
approach of winter. Soon ice and snow blocked 
up the way, and permitted little egress to the 
dwellers in that lonely forest-house. They seemed 
shut out by the freezing barrier from the rest of 
the world ; no human being broke in upon, and 
pleasantly interrupted the quiet monotony of their 
lives — the faint sound of the distant village-bell, 
borne by the winds as it rung on the sabbath, alone 
reminded them that life was around them. For 
weeks together they were unable to obey its sum- 
mons, for they could not penetrate through the 
piled-up snow-drifts that lay between them and the 
house of prayer. With what longing did Melanie 
now dwell on thoughts of the collier’s family! 
She was really sad over the long separation ; and 
often, often did she walk out on the snow-covered 
waste, to see if there was any prospect of a walk 
succeeding. But the voice that had been awakened 
within did not slumber, although nature lay buried 
beneath that white shroud. She who had formerly 
murmured at every little disappointment, was now 
become patient ; and when she found it impossible 
to seek pleasure abroad, she acknowledged to her- 


82 THE neighbors’ children. 

self how delightful it was to be able to find it at 
home. In the long winter evenings, she sat beside 
the bright wood-fire that blazed in the kitchen- 
hearth, learning of Marie how to spin flax, listen- 
ing to her simple legends, or learning some 
mountain ballad, which afterwards she would sing 
to her mother. 

At length the long and dreary winter passed 
away, and with great joy Melanie saw the snow 
melt from the foot-path, and the forest shrubs raise 
their heads, as if glad to be released from the 
folds of his cold mantle ; and long before the 
walking was dry, she was on her way to the cottage 
of the Wilhelms, for that was the name of her 
collier friends. She often slipped on the soft snow, 
the mud soiled her clothing, and the unwonted toil 
wearied her; but she had forgotten to care for 
such hindrances, and she only smiled to herself as 
she contrasted her present plodding through the 
dirt on foot, with the luxurious carriage in which 
she used to ride ; and admitted that happiness is 
more equally distributed between the rich and 
poor, by the divine Disposer, than most are willing 
to believe. 

The children, who were clustered before the 
little window, saw her coming, and ran with shouts 
of wmlcome to meet her ; the very dog was glad, 
and barked and gambolled around her in a manner 
that almost made her afraid. The collier held out 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 83 

his blackened hand to greet her, and Melanie did 
not refuse to clasp it in her own. A few minutes 
more, and she was seated in the midst of her young 
friends. The treasures of the basket were dis- 
played in the shape of dried fruits, which they 
devoured with great zest, as she told them tales of 
Mother Redcap, the fairy Poena, which she learned 
whilst at Steinrode ; or the more marvellous 
legends of the Hartz, related by Marie, of little 
children having been spirited away, and put into 
dark caverns, because they were naughty. 

“ 0, how many new things you have learned 
since you were here!” said little Fritz. “But 
have you learned any new prayers? I have learned 
such a pretty one ! let me say it to you ;” and the 
child, folding his hands, and closing his eyes, 
looked like the angel of supplication, as his sweet 
infantine voice addressed the Father whom, young 
as he was, he had been taught to love and know. 

Our Father ! let me pray to Thee 
A pious child to make of me. 

Make me like Him who, good and wise, 

Did never little ones despise. 

But if in manhood I should stray 
From this safe path, 0, then I pray, 

That even in childhood Death may bear 
Mo to the world where angels are. 

I would be like them, and like Thee, 

Saviour ! who died to ransom .me. 

“Now I will teach you that prayer if you w’ant 
to learn it. Do n’t you always pray before you go 


84 THE neighbors’ children. 

to sleep? we all do, for mother says the good 
angels watch over children, if they ask the kind 
Heavenly Father to let them.” 

Poor Melanie cast down her eyes to the floor — 
she blushed to be taught a second time by those 
lowly children ; and as the blue eyes of her inno- 
cent little favourite sought to read an answer in 
hers, she was glad to turn her own away, for 
the question shot painfully through her heart. 
At HausdorfF she had never heard of such a 
thing as beginning and ending the day with 
prayer. When she was very small, her French 
bonne had always put her to sleep by the relation 
of some pretty tale ; and as she grew older, her 
head was filled with love of dress and other 
vanities ; they were her first thought in the morn- 
ing, her last at night; in such a frivolous mind 
there was no place for prayer ; and at Steinrode, 
as we have mentioned at an early period in our 
narrative, she nor her mother never would be 
present at the hour when the prayer was made, 
for both laughed at what, at that time, they called 
puritanical folly. Her mother, though greatly 
changed, had not yet become so far learned in 
spiritual things as to believe a child could discern 
the beauty of holiness ; her own life was yet in its 
dawning ; but God had prepared the means for its 
increase unto bright and perfect day. 

Lady Yon Grosse had begun to' view things 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 85 

differently since the supposed death of Eugene ; 
she had often begged her to humble her heart 
before the Great Being who orders the destinies 
of men ; hut she did not herself comprehend the 
mystery of the second birth. She knew not the 
spiritual meaning conveyed in the words, “ Except 
ye become as a little child, ye cannot enter the 
kingdom of heaven,” for the Spirit alone gives 
power to comprehend its own teachings. Melanie 
was much improved, but the foundation for true 
piety had not been properly laid; and it is more 
than probable that had she this time been re- 
instated in her former brilliant career, the bene- 
ficial effects of Adversity’s discipline would have 
been lost. 

The question of the child, however, had pene- 
trated her heart; her eyes filled with tears and 
dropped upon the floor, and the little boy was 
troubled to see her crying. 

“Now don’t be so sorry,” said he, trying to 
comfort her, “ because you do not know it. I will 
say it over and over, and you must tell it after 
me, and you’ll soon get it:” and he repeated his 
simple prayer many and many times, and finding 
he was about to cry too, Melanie, to comfort him, 
was fain, to be his scholar. 

Many thoughts agitated her bosom — Eugene 
had never prayed ; God had removed him from the 
earth; but was he, she asked herself, with the 
8 


86 THE neighbors’ children. 

angels? and her tears flowed until her visit was 
ended. She now knew the whole wood in their 
neighbourhood so well, that she feared not to 
traverse the forest path if it was a little later than 
usual ; and although the whole place looked bleak 
and winter-stricken, she heeded it not, nor the 
darkness that was clustering round. Ere she 
reached her home, her heart was full ; the spirit 
of prayer had begun its work ; and there, in that 
holy consecrated spot, where Nature daily hymns 
her praises, was her prayer offered. She prayed 
with humility and sincerity, and her heart w T as 
lighter; the cold bright moon seemed to look down 
and smile upon her, the only witness to the vow 
she uttered there, to begin with existing grace a 
better life. Her sleep that night was sweet and 
sound ; her first thoughts on awakening were 
directed to the Great Source of light and being, 
from whom proceedeth every good and perfect 
gift. From this day she went not backward — her 
progress was slow, for she was very ignorant ; but 
in the course she had chosen to pursue she went on 
steadily, although from her faulty education she 
had many hindrances to contend with. It was 
now that her humble friends in the collier’s cottage 
were of real value to her. They were deeply 
pious, although ignorant of all those forms that 
pass current in the world; their only lore was 
derived from an old book which the good woman 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 87 

of the house read every day aloud. Melanie 
listened at first to what she read, then opened it 
herself and read here and there out of curiosity ; 
but soon after finding the contents to interest her 
more deeply than she at first supposed them likely 
to do, she carried the book home with her, that she 
might read it aloud to her mother. Eva, for that 
was the name of its owner, readily permitted her to 
do so, as they had more than one ; and Melanie 
greatly rejoiced at the comfort Lady Yon Gross e 
experienced from the perusal. She had never 
ceased to grieve for Eugene ; and at times her 
sorrow was great as ever ; but now it gradually 
grew milder ; and although her tears still flowed, 
they w r ere not so hitter as before. She listened 
closely to the words her daughter read ; and they 
sunk deep into her heart — not one escaped. 

“ The goodness of God is, that we are not 
entirely destroyed. His compassions are new 
every morning — they have no end ; and great is 
his faithfulness. Hear, 0 Lord, when I cry with 
my voice ; have mercy also upon me, and answer 
me. For when thou saidst , Seek ye my face, my 
heart said unto thee, Thy face, Lord, will I seek.” 
She saw, as though a veil had been withdrawn from 
before her mental vision, how sinful her whole life 
had been, the bad use she had made of the time 
and gifts bestowed by her Maker in her days ot 
prosperity, of her wild and rebellious grief in the 


88 THE neighbors’ children. 

first period of her overwhelming calamity, which 
had no effect as to softening or humbling her 
heart, until it was followed by the loss of Eugene. 

She contrasted her own conduct through the 
whole of that sore trial with that of Lady Linden- 
burg, who, strong in the faith of Heavenly Wisdom 
and Heavenly Protection, yielded so meekly to the 
blow that had fallen, although her mother’s heart 
was as deeply stricken as her own ; and now 
believed that nothing but the mighty change which 
true religion can effect, could enable any one to 
bear, as she had done, a change at the mention of 
which she had always laughed at as chimerical, 
having no existence but in the brain of fanatics. 
But now her eyes were open to behold the true 
light — she read in the Holy Book that the Cross 
is accessible to all ; and thither she repaired, that 
beneath its shadow she might find comfort and 
salvation, that is only to be found there. And 
when at seasons almost discouraged by the remem- 
brance of what she had been, she read how God 
had brought one who w r as as great a sinner as her- 
self “up out of an horrible pit, out of the miry 
clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established 
my goings.” 

It is astonishing what a closely sealed book the 
bible is until the convicting Spirit shows what 
high interest belongs to its perusal. A “ stumbling 
block and foolishness” to those who look no further 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 89 

than this unsatisfying world ; no sooner does the 
Mighty Spirit brood over the darkened heart, than 
all obscurity is removed — it is then their study and 
admiration, unfolding the “ mystery of godliness, 
and the truth as it is in Christ.” Happy for our 
sufferers that they found it so ; for although no 
chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, 
“yet bringeth forth the peaceable fruits of 
righteousness” to such as endure the chastisement, 
all shall at length be merged in an “ eternal weight 
of glory.” 

Clouded as their minds had been, their progress 
in the pursuit of knowledge belonging to the 
divine life was at first tardy ; but the humility 
they had now learned to exercise, led them to seek 
assistance from others ; and Melanie becoming 
acquainted with the grey-haired pastor of the 
village church to which, when the weather per- 
mitted, she sometimes went with Eva and her 
children ; the good man began to consider her as 
one of his flock, and included the forest lodge 
within the range of his pastoral visits ; a circum- 
stance which was productive of great pleasure to 
the inhabitants of that lonely abode, and of great 
interest to himself, inasmuch as he was one whose 
heart was in the advancement of his Master’s 
kingdom. 

To many minds, the change that had come over 
the self-willed, haughty, and falsehood -loving 

8 * 


90 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


Melanie, would seem incredible. But there are 
many who know that there is no sinner, however 
vile, who cannot he made a partaker of the 66 sal- 
vation as it is revealed by the cross of Christ 
since the Scriptures tell us of those who were justly 
numbered among the vilest, to whom its saving 
influence reached. It is indeed to such that the 
Bible tells us that the call is most loudly made ; 
since “ those that are whole need not a physician, 
but those that are sick.” That they are the sub- 
jects over whom mercy weeps in secret places — 
whom by every means and inducement it would 
seek to find out, and encourage to follow him who 
came, not to bring the “ righteous, but sinners to 
repentance.” Melanie thought no hardship now 
of trudging on foot to the village-church, although 
the way was long, and the road rough, and her 
companions among the most lowly children of the 
earth ; even braving inclement weather to do so. 
She had begun the battle against herself in ear- 
nest ; and, aided from the true Source to which 
she applied, her conquest became successful. The 
only joy and comfort now of her deeply-bowed and 
mourning mother, who still wept over the loss of 
Eugene, though much less bitterly than at first, 
she studied constantly how she could soothe and 
cheer her; for Madame Yon Grosse, as she saw 
what Melanie now was, compared with what she 
had been, was but daily made more sensible of her 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


91 


great fault in the negligent raising of her children ; 
and as she thought of Eugene, and the comfort 
and support he might have been to her, had he 
been properly instructed, the self-reproach that 
mingled itself in all her contemplations, occasioned 
a more bitter grief than even his loss. 

Her husband, careless as ever, and thinking only 
of his own gratification, made every excuse for 
frequent visits to the capital, -where he remained 
for weeks at a time, on the plea of seeking for a 
situation ; caring not that he left those lonely ones 
without protection save from the young Hungarian, 
Tuva, who assisted him in his office as forest- 
ranger. Fortunately, he was faithful. Marie, 
uncorrupted by the ways of the world that lay too 
far off to be imitated by the dwellers in that remote 
region, was excellent in her capacity of a servant; 
and Melanie and her mother, as time rolled on, 
found out that they had much more to be thankful 
for than, on their first arrival in that lonely place, 
they could have possibly anticipated ; so true is it 
that the means of happiness are ever within our- 
selves. 


92 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


CHAPTER Y. 


“Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath, 
For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.” 


We must now leave the family at the forest- 
lodge to pursue the new course of life on which 
they had entered, to look after the boys ; whom, 
when we left them, Dietrich was bearing through 
wilds almost impervious, and roads scarcely pas- 
sable, far — far from their homes. Eor many miles, 
no words were spoken save those when their captor 
threatened them, if they made the least outcry ; 
their stout horse carried them briskly forward 
through lonely and unfrequented w T ays, and gra- 
dually the face of the country began to change. 
The Silesian Mountains had grown dim in the 
distance ; old Zobtenberg was no longer seen, and 
the flat and level plains over which they now rolled 
rapidly, presented features of a country very 
different from those which they had loved to look 
upon in their own. The Carpathian Mountains 
loomed high and blue in the distance ; large streams, 
rendered passable by fragile bridges, of which the 
wrecks of such as had spanned them before being 
carried away by the rapid torrents of autumn, lay 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 93 

strewn around ; wastes of scanty and discolored 
grass, extending in wearisome uniformity, and 
broken only by alternating bogs and sand-pits, as 
far as the eye could reach, gave the whole a deso- 
late and monotonous aspect, which increased the 
melancholy of our young and hapless travellers. 

For the first day, no sign of human habitation 
enlivened the dreary scene. There was nothing in 
the gloomy landscape to whisper hope, or create a 
softer mood in the minds of our three acquaint- 
ances ; nothing in the external objects which every 
where met the eye, to divert them from their 
inward broodings. With extraordinary rapidity 
they hurried along. For hours, neither of the boys 
ventured to break the enforced silence ; since the 
countenance of Dietrich bore evidence of his sin- 
cerity in the threatened punishment which was to 
follow disobedience. The day, as we have said, 
was drizzly and rainy ; and as it advanced towards 
its close, became wild and stormy; heightening the 
horror of their condition, if indeed by any out- 
ward circumstance it could be increased. Dietrich, 
as they travelled, had offered them some coarse but 
wholesome food, which Eugene had scornfully 
refused, and at this time was really very sick from 
inanition ; but Felix, who saw no use in provoking 
one from whose power they could not escape, 
thought it best to yield to him in all that h^ 
desired, although he could not imagine what were 


94 THE neighbors’ children. 

his intentions, or by what means he had become 
his enemy. 

While Eugene thus, by his refractory behaviour, 
yet the more punished himself, and lay groaning 
and weeping in the bottom of the waggon, Felix, 
though he made no noisy demonstrations of grief, 
was no less sad. He thought over the separation 
from his home, and his loved ones there — of the 
trouble and sorrow his sudden disappearance would 
cause ; and self-reproach for the disobedience of 
which he had been guilty, added greater poignancy 
to his feelings. 

“My dear, dear mother,” he said to himself, as 
he recalled her image, and her last kiss, and the 
quick tears coursed one after the other down his 
cheeks; “I have deserved to suffer, since I dis- 
obeyed you; had I only returned as you bade 
me, and not broken the promise I made — had I 
repressed the idle curiosity that led me to trans- 
gress, I should at this moment have been happy 
with you, instead of travelling I know not whither, 
or for why.” 

It was late in the evening when Dietrich drew 
up at a spot on the waste, where a few stunted 
trees, and a smoke-blackened rock, showed that 
gypsies or travelling tinkers had occupied the spot 
before themselves, and promised to afford a kind 
of shelter from the pelting rain. He then took a 
bag of corn and some hay from the waggon, and 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


95 


began to make some arrangements for passing the 
night. He unharnessed the horse ; and, carefully 
rubbing him down, made the animal as comfortable 
as circumstances admitted. Felix asked permission 
to assist him, which the old man granted ; and the 
boy observed that his countenance was considerably 
softened in its expression. Venturing on this 
account to speak, although almost dreading to do 
so, he asked their rude guide if he w’ould not at 
least tell them where they were going ; and he was 
answered with much more mildness than he ex- 
pected. 

“Be easy — you have nothing to fear, for you 
shall see your home and parents again ; but now 
there is nothing that you can do better than to be 
quiet, and yield to my will.” 

He then brought forth some more food, -which 
he offered to both, and Eugene did not at this time 
refuse ; and spreading some coarse cloths over 
them, after he had bidden them lie down on some 
straw in the bottom of the waggon, and go to sleep, 
he seated himself under the shelter of the pro- 
jecting rock, and fell into his usual mood of 
gloomy musings, which were not at all interrupted 
by the wind and rain, that swept in driving gusts 
around him. 

He awoke the boys at an early hour ; the storm 
had passed away, and all looked brighter; their 
horses, refreshed by rest and food, trotted merrily 


96 THE neighbors’ children. 

onwards; and Dietrich, although moody, was by 
no means unkind to himself, although to Eugene, 
who would not obey his summons to arise, he gave 
a sound drubbing. This he resented to the utmost 
of his power ; but he had to yield to his enemy’s 
superior force; but he revenged himself as far as 
lie was able by uttering all sorts of invectives and 
threats of future punishment to be inflicted by 
his father for such treatment of a nobleman’s son, 
which was listened to with as much indifference as 
they were silly and impotent. 

Felix, on the other hand, soothed by the assu- 
rance that he should again see his parents and his 
home, resolved to submit implicitly to the singular 
old man, to indulge in no useless complaints, but 
to obey, however unreasonable his demands might 
be, hoping by this means to be able to shorten his 
term of captivity and servitude. In view not only 
of this, but because he could not but observe the 
marks of the deep sorrow which Dietrich ever ex- 
hibited, and which greatly excited his boyish com- 
passion, although he had not the slightest idea of 
its cause; it was on the second day of their 
journey that he strove to engage him in cheerful 
conversation, and assist him in such occupations as 
he was obliged to perform for their mutual benefit 
in the course of their travel. This day was not 
so dreary as the preceding ; for although Dietrich 
avoided the frequented roads, that on which they 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 97 

now passed was at intervals enlivened by the pres- 
ence of human beings. Now and then some 
traveller was met mounted on a mettled steed, 
hardly to be restrained, the graceful cap of 
crimson and silver, the neatly trimmed moustache 
and handsome form, bespeaking the Polish noble ; 
but in the swift passage of the rider, no word for 
assistance could be addressed ; the peasants in 
their sheepskin clothing, or sometimes one whose 
full robe and pointed cap proclaimed him a Jew, 
came by, and served to convince Felix, for Eugene 
in his sullenness did not care to know, that they 
were in the land of serfdom and oppression. 
Although human habitations and villages were 
again to be seen, Dietrich still carefully avoided 
them ; and as forests had once more become 
frequent, it was in their deep shadow that they 
mostly passed the night. Felix soon learned from 
the old man how to kindle a fire, for the weather 
having grown chilly, it being late autumn, it was 
very necessary ; and whilst he would be absent at 
some peasant’s cottage or village, where he was 
obliged to go to purchase food, the boy did his 
utmost to have things in readiness against his 

o o 

return. 

Eugene called him a fool for his pains, and 
advised that they should both get on the horse and 
ride off as fast as they could ; until his companion 
represented that such a course would only make 


98 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


matters worse, for what could they do in a country 
the language of which they did not understand, 
and of whose localities they were entirely ignorant. 
So Eugene was • obliged to be convinced of the 
impracticability of such a scheme, although he still 
remained firm in his purpose of thwarting Dietrich, 
in spite of all that Felix could urge against the 
imprudence of such conduct. The cheerful com- 
pliance of the latter in all his requirements 
softened the heart of Dietrich greatly towards 
him ; and one evening when he had finished his 
task of gathering such grass as the late autumn 
yet permitted, during the absence of their con- 
ductor after provisions, he began to speak in a 
more confidential manner to him than he had yet 
done. 

“My poor boy,” said he, as they were both 
busy in attending to their four-footed companion, 
whilst Eugene lay stretched out sullenly before the 
fire his companion had kindled, “I wish I could 
send you home to your parents. This thing was 
not intended for you, and your friends are, no 
doubt, grieving for the loss of such a good lad; 
and, besides, your are the brother of that dear 
little girl that looks so like my own Annie, and 
gave me an alms without my having asked any ; 
but I dare not do so, my own safety forbids it. 
And then I must not break my word to Amade ; 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 99 

until he is beyond the reach of danger, you must 
stay with me ; I will take care that you get back.” 

“ And Eugene, too ? ” enquired the boy ; “ will 
you not let him go too ? His parents, no doubt, 
grieve as much as mine; and the indulgence he 
has been accustomed to makes it harder for him to 
bear his present trial patiently than me. Won’t 
you, good Dietrich — won’t you let him go home 
too ? ” 

Dietrich laughed scornfully. “No, my good 
youth, no,” he replied in a tone of determination, 
as he set his teeth firmly together ; “ the young 
villain remains with me until poverty and hardship 
shall have taught him how to feel for others, and 
forced his haughty mind to bow, and humbled his 
hard heart. He shall be made to serve those 
whom he, in his day of pride, deemed little better 
than the brutes that perish, and whom, because 
they w*ere poor, he would have trodden under foot. 
Do you think that, after having ventured so much 
on this game, and now having it altogether in my 
hands, I am going to give up the revenge for 
which I so long have panted?” 

“Vengeance belongs only to God,” said Felix; 
“leave it to him to humble the heart of Eugene; 
you only bring sorrow on your own soul when you 
thus seek to revenge yourself. Are you not a 
Christian — have you not heard that it is the duty 
of such to keep his commandments and do his 


100 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


will ? Do you not know the prayer in which 
Christ bids us ask forgivness for ‘ our trespasses, 
even as we forgive those who trespass against us.’ 
I know a little hymn we all learned at home ; let 
me say it to you, Dietrich?” 

“ Say it if you like,” answered he, a little 
moved by the boy’s earnestness ; “ I believe you 
are a good lad, and mean well ; but I tell you first, 
I am not much for such things.” 

“You would be happier if you were,” answered 
the boy ; “ 0 Dietrich, if you knew how happy 
we all were at home — ” his voice faltered; but 
regaining his firmness, after a moment’s thought 
repeated his hymn : — 

To the Saviour on earth his disciples did say, 

“ Lord give us thy spirit, and teach us to pray.” 

In wisdom and mildness he answered them, “ Love 
Thy God and each other, as do angels above ; 

Showing mercy to all who ask it of thee, 

And thy sins, though like scarlet, remitted shall be.” 
Does any one wrong thee ? though sorely beset, 

; Tis the spirit of Heaven ; the blow to forget, 

Like the breath of the wind let its thoughts pass away, 
Vengeance only is God’s, and he will repay. 

Can’st thou hope for thy sin to find pardon in Heaven, 
If thy brother offending thou hast not forgiven. 

By mercy alone shall mercy be met, 

When death — 

Felix was here suddenly interrupted by Dietrich, 
who, until this moment, had listened in thoughtful 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 101 

silence ; but now he broke forth more passionately 
than our young friend had yet seen him. 

“Silence, boy! silence!” he exclaimed; “wouldst 
thou dare to attempt to alter, with the words of 
thy mouth, that which I have once resolved ? the 
purpose, to accomplish which alone I live ?” 

His countenance had once more resumed its wild 
and painful expression, which, indicative of the 
stormy state of his soul, had in the beginning of 
their journey so deeply moved the compassion of 
Felix. He would have poured the oil of consola- 
tion on its troubled sea — he would have directed 
him to the One who alone can say, “Peace!” and 
all is still; but fearing to awake his maniac passion 
by any further words, he sat down, disappointed, 
frightened, and dejected, near the unhappy being 
who was now the disposer of his fate, and gazed 
upon him with an interest in nowise lessened by 
the temporary violence he had exhibited. 

But that desperate and brooding air ere long 
was changed for one of more human seeming. He 
leaned his head upon his hands, and sighed deeply ; 
and although he spoke no word, the looks that from 
time to time he cast upon Felix, showed that, al- 
though the boy had ventured to touch a deeply 
thrilling chord, he bore him no displeasure; and 
the latter, recovering from his momentary alarm, 
once more began to hope for better things. The 
group that sat in that lonely spot would have pre- 
9 * 


102 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


sented a subject worthy of some famed pen or 
pencil. The night, so still and serene, with her 
planets all abroad, speaking without a voice to the 
ear, but yet with an influence louder than words ; 
the fire kindled against the gray rock, flashing up 
bright and brilliant, illumed the lonely wild, and 
fell upon the faces of those who were to pass the 
night in that solitary place ; revealing, as it 
glanced and flickered upon their countenances, the 
emotions that swayed the heart of each. That 
stern, dark man, with his despairing look, and knit 
brow, would have reminded us of one to whom the 
door of mercy and hope was about to be closed for 
ever; but Felix, of the angel of Pity, who never 
forsakes man, dropping tears over the calamities 
she cannot avert, and pleading, even until he has 
gone down to the dust of which he is a part ; while 
Eugene, in nowise softened by the sufferings and 
discipline to which he had been subjected, nor ope- 
rated upon by any of the influences around him, 
was the very impersonation of a revolted slave. 
The overwhelming sense of the injustice that had 
been perpetrated upon him, and his indomitable 
pride, that yet blinded him to the recognition that 
Dietrich in the first instance had been wronged, 
had closed up every avenue to better feelings in 
his heart, producing more acerbity than even was 
natural ; and woe and resentment steeped his soul 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 103 

in bitterness that greatly increased the asperities 
of his condition. 

A different course of conduct would have done 
much in soothing the savage vindictiveness of the 
misguided peasant who had him in his power ; but 
his faulty education stood in the way of this. He 
first despised Felix for the “cringing meanness” 
which led him to bow before the storm he could 
not resist, and afterwards hated him in the same 
measure as the latter succeeded in gaining the 
confidence and affection of Diefrich. 


104 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


CHAPTER VI. 


"Where trackless wilds seem lengthening as they go.” 

The travellers had now left Austrian Poland far 
behind, and entered the Russian division, where 
the national character is more vividly marked than 
in the former. For six days after this, they jour- 
neyed over roads to which it would be difficult to 
find a parallel, perhaps, in the world. Deep ruts 
and deep holes alternated with fallen trees and 
broken branches lying across the way — through 
forests ivhere the land-marks were difficult to be 
ascertained, and over bridges of the rudest con- 
struction and doubtful stability. Their horse, 
which had held up wonderfully for the first few 
days, now began to exhibit symptoms of fatigue. 
Both boys became anxious to know where their 
journey was to end, looking inquiringly as they 
passed the villages which their conductor no longer 
avoided, in hopes that each one would prove the 
home, and provide the rest of which they now were 
greatly in need. To the few questions which Felix 
thought proper to address to Dietrich on this head, 
he would only answer, “you will get there soon 
enough but it was not until the evening of the 
sixth day after entering Russian Poland had long 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 105 

closed in, and their wearied horse had more than 
once fallen, that they reached a sort of hamlet 
which Dietrich told them was to be the limit of 
their travel. 

It consisted of a few miserable hovels, seemingly 
inhabited by the lowest class of peasants, from 
whose stolid indifference and unsocial selfishness, 
as painted in their looks, no sympathy was to be 
expected ; the hard, coarse life to which they were 
subjected, successfully crushing every natural or 
gentler emotion. Desirable as a place of rest was, 
neither fatigue, nor the lateness of the hour, could 
scarcely make this inviting. Nearly surrounded 
by a forest, it appeared better fitted to furnish 
lairs to the denizens of the wood, rather than 
homes for creatures bearing the semblance of hu- 
manity, of which those who came forth on hearing 
the sound of wheels, could scarcely be said to do. 
Clothed in dresses of untanned sheep-skins, with 
high caps of the same material, their faces nearly 
hidden by beard and moustache, and squalid to the 
last degree, their figures struck not less painfully 
on the eye, than they excited repugnance and 
terror in the mind. Eugene shrank back in horror 
which he cared not to disguise, and Felix would 
scarcely have been able to exercise the portion of 
self-command he had so lately acquired, had not 
Dietrich spoken a few wmrds of kindness to him, 
assuring him that both were safe from anything 


106 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


like lawless violence, while in a rough tone he bade 
his companion to dismount, for that “ he had now 
come to the place where spoiled boys were taught 
manners, and how to feel.” 

They entered one of the largest dwellings, which 
was the pot-house of the rude community. Several 
men sat drinking at a table, nearly hidden in a 
cloud of tobacco-smoke, conversing together in a 
language which the boys had never heard, and 
whose barbarous sounds served to increase the im- 
pression already made. Here, then, in this filthy 
tap-room, was the first meal consisting of warm 
viands, served to our young friends since they' had 
left Steinrode ; and although they witnessed its 
preparation, and noticed the condition of the 
utensils, used in its cooking — all being of such a 
kind as rather to destroy than create an appetite 
— it was devoured greedily. 

They approached the table where the peasants 
sat, in hopes of being able to understand something 
that would give them some idea of where they 
were, or their condition, but not one word was 
intelligible ; and their consternation may be better 
imagined than told, when to all their questions the 
only answer received was that significant shake of 
the head which says, “I do not understand.” And 
it was so — not one in this place spoke or under- 
stood a word of German; and to increase the 
uncomfortable feeling caused by this discovery, 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 107 

Dietrich laughed maliciously when Eugene ex- 
pressed his sense of hopelessness by a flood of 
tears. 

In this filthy abode, reeking ever with the fumes 
of Russian brandy and bad tobacco, the boys had 
to remain many days ; while Dietrich, who was 
seeking employment, and often obliged to be 
absent, gave them many charges as to what spots 
to limit their wanderings whilst he was abroad ; 
more on account of dangers which might arise to 
themselves from going too far, than any desire to 
restrain. The liberty which they now enjoyed, 
therefore, availed them little; any attempt to move 
the stolid beings by whom they were surrounded, 
was met by a cold shrug of the shoulders, or a 
scornful laugh ; and at last threats, although not 
expressed in words, yet too plainly in movements 
to be mistaken, forced even the haughty Eugene 
to perceive that silent forbearance was not only 
the safest, but the only course. 

Sons of an oppressed race, abhorring that sys- 
tem of serfdom so adverse to man’s nature, they 
all so hated anything like nobility, that had they 
really been aware of the true circumstances by 
which these unhappy boys had appeared among 
them, their hearts would still have been closed to 
the calls of sympathy and justice. In their igno- 
rance, they could have admitted no claim from the 
one ; in their brutal animosity to those whose power 


108 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

they hated without daring to resist, they were only 
too glad to have an opportunity of assisting to 
humble those who might, from their position, one 
day be expected to give their voices in favor of 
that despotism by which they were crushed. From 
Dietrich’s representations, they considered them 
only as belonging to the brood of the serpent that 
poisoned all their earthly enjoyment; and knowing 
but little more than that the nobility, whom they 
hated with an unspeakable hatred, commanded, and 
themselves were born to obey, it was felt to be a 
sort of triumph now, to have some power in their 
own hands ; for nothing more clouded — nothing 
more barren can be imagined, than the minds of 
the peasants born to perpetual slavery on the Rus- 
sian frontiers. To be born noble, in their estima- 
tion, was to be born wicked ; and the tale that 
Dietrich, who was no stranger to them, had told 
of his own wrongs, seemed to them legitimate cause 
for his manner of action, and served to deepen 
their abhorrence of those who exercised dominion 
over them ; a slavery to which, although imposed 
for centuries, they had never become inured. 

The boys, therefore, turned away from those 
whose ferocious appearance, and savage manners, 
w T ere in accordance with the place they inhabited ; 
and they experienced sensations of relief wdien 
Dietrich took them to a small and miserable hovel, 
at some short distance from the hamlet ; and so 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 109 

separated them from all companionship with those 
whose neighborhood was so unpleasant, if not 
unsafe. Their housekeeping affairs were easily 
arranged. Little was needed in a place like this, 
and as soon as this was regulated, they were told 
to prepare themselves for settled and steady work. 
Hard indeed was the task assigned them ; as Die- 
trich had got a job at wood-cutting, in the forest, 
which kept him absent the greater part of the day, 
that of the boys was to prepare a piece of ground 
belonging to the cottage for tillage, and they found 
it slavish to the last degree. Encumbered with 
stones, and overgrown with brambles, all these had 
to be cleared off before it could be dug ; which 
their peasant master said it must be, ere the winter 
set in, or else it would produce nothing in the 
coming year. 

Eugene, in spite of threats from his captor, and 
entreaties from Felix, rendered no submission ; 
thus adding to the rigor of his lot. Sometimes he 
would weep throughout the whole day over his sad 
condition — at others, he would throw himself on 
the ground in sullen despair ; but always refusing 
to bear any part in the labor, maintaining that he 
would rather die than work like a common peasant. 
In vain Felix remonstrated with him, he was deaf 
to all he could urge ; and the only alternative to 
save him from the wrath of Dietrich, and corporeal 
punishment, was to do a double portion of the work 
10 


110 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

himself. A severe fit of sickness, the consequence 
of his own imprudence, did not improve Eugene 
either in temper or otherwise. Dietrich did not 
neglect him while he was ill — ministering to him, 
it is true, in his own manner, but still making him 
as comfortable as he could in such a place, and 
with such means as he possessed; but Eugene 
remained self-willed and unbowed as ever. By the 
time he had fully recovered his strength, the season 
was far advanced ; and it became too cold for one 
so lately an invalid, to be employed in out-door 
labor. It was therefore decided that he was to 
remain within to do household -work — to clean up 
whatever had been used in the preparation of their 
food, make the fire, carry water and wood, and 
keep the house in order, for Dietrich was scrupu- 
lous in regard to cleanliness ; and the performance 
of these tasks were most rigidly enforced, although, 
to our spoiled boy, they were more disagreeable 
than those which had at first been allotted to him. 
Their fare was of the plainest kind ; black bread, 
cheese — or when the latter was scarce, a few eggs 
— milk, and on Sundays bacon, were the principal 
articles found upon their table ; but these w T ere 
eaten with a zest never known by the epicure, for 
they were enjoyed with appetite, and seasoned by 
the hunger produced by wholesome labor. 

Eelix, who was never treated unkindly by his 
rude master, but permitted to converse with him 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. Ill 

on all subjects as freely as the peculiar mood of his 
mind would allow, assisted Eugene in his tasks as 
far as lay in his power, and would have consoled 
him if the latter had consented to listen. So the 
holy sympathies which occupied his own heart, for 
as he saw his master so very unhappy, the injustice 
of which he had been guilty in bringing himself 
away from his home, not being suffered to interfere 
between selfishness and his knowledge of Christian 
duty, reflected its sunlight back upon himself, and 
illumined the gloomy atmosphere, that else would 
have thrown back its shadow on his heart, and 
withered it beyond all hope of saving. 

The valuable precepts taught in his father’s 
house, and accompanied with prayer, had not been 
without effect; and although, like other boys of 
his age, at the time he heard them uttered, he 
received them only in a general sense, and without 
pondering on the truths they contained, the holy 
remembrance now came back upon him, consti- 
tuting a link — may we say a spiritual link ? — 
between himself and his far distant home : he re- 
solved to act upon them, regarding them as a 
sacred legacy from the parents from whom he was 
torn ; and so, while he went and came like a min- 
istering angel between his two suffering compa- 
nions, his efforts in doing good prevented his own 
life from being one of unmitigated bitterness. 

Dietrich, whose heart daily grew softer as he 


112 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


enjoyed sympathy to which he had long been a 
stranger, although the one who extended it was a 
boy, and at present his slave, gave him all the 
liberty he desired. His labor in the forest was not 
very severe ; and sometimes, when he was so for- 
tunate as to find a swarm of wild bees, emotions 
buoyant as those that had swelled his heart at 
Steinrode, for a moment would spring up, and 
feelings of real joy, as he secured his honied trea- 
sure, at the thoughts of the joyful surprise with 
which Eugene would greet him on his return. So 
true is it the elements of happiness are ever within 
ourselves ! life had its gleams of sunshine even 
here ! He seemed to know no weariness in pro- 
moting the comfort of those with whom he was 
now forced to dwell, although there was nothing 
congenial in either. He conciliated his rude master 
by a thousand kind but trifling offices ; and while 
he tried to comfort, took half the labor off the 
capricious Eugene. 

“Hear Eugene,” he often said, “let us be more 
patient ; we know that this great trial could not 
have befallen us unless permitted by our Heavenly 
Father. How often have I heard my dear father 
say, ‘ God never willingly afflicts, but it is always 
to accomplish some wise purpose;’ let us, therefore, 
submit to what we cannot help, and pray that he 
will make a way by which we shall be restored to 
our friends.” 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 113 

“I will never, never obey that peasant thief,” 
the unsubdued boy would answer; “he never shall 
force me to subjection — I will resist him to the 
utmost; for it never shall be said the son of a 
Yon Grosse bowed his neck to the rule of a boor.” 

“ You do but lengthen the days of your and my 
own captivity, with such conduct,” rejoined Felix ; 
“ do, Eugene, yield at least to the will of God in 
this matter, since our way is hedged upon every 
side ; believe me, he will make a way for us to 
escape, if we only try to do our duty. I do not 
know why Dietrich brought us away from our 
home, and my heart is as sad as your own ; but he 
is never unkind to me, and if you only would try 
a little to please him, I feel almost certain he would 
give us our liberty.” 

“ I never will be so mean as you are, Felix,” 
cried Eugene, giving way to the haughty spirit 
that was so peculiarly his own ; “ I never could 
stoop to conciliate peasants and serfs as you do ; 
and I have often wondered how you, a nobleman’s 
son, could associate with such low fellows as you 
all did at Steinrode — there was that Ehrenfried 
for instance.” 

The angry blood mounted to the temples of 
Felix, tinging his fair broad forehead even to the 
roots of his wavy hair; the impatient spirit was 
beginning to rise, and an hasty answer was form- 
ing on his lips ; but the still small voice in his own 
10 *, 


114 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

heart repeated the admonition of his beloved 
mother on the day when he was torn from her, 
and the sacred recollection turned his anger into 
sorrow ; he turned away from the ungrateful 
Eugene, and burst into tears. All around was in 
accordance with his mournful feelings — the glim- 
mering brightness of that autumnal day, alterna- 
ting with shades of wintry gloom — the sunbeams 
that played through the scanty roofed covering of 
the forest, or danced on the faded and withered 
herbage that strewed the earth, gave to nature an 
unusual hue of gentle sadness — she seemed to wear 
a smile of languid beauty, ominous of her own 
swift-coming decay. 

There are few minds so obtuse as not to be sen- 
sible of the effects of natural scenes in peculiar 
moods ; and the sad and changeful appearance of 
this day was well calculated to extend the half- 
slumbering recollections which Eugene’s reproach 
had called forth; and Felix most deeply felt the 
sombre influence. The name of Ehrenfried re- 
called the image of his happy brother — Steinrode 
was a talismanic word that called up all the bliss- 
ful scenes of which he had been the partaker in 
that spot which bore the charmed name of home ; 
but the recollection of his mother brought with it 
a yearning of heart which admitted of no control ; 
and, for the first time, forgetful or careless of 
the displeasure of Dietrich, he wandered away far 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 115 

into the recesses of the forest, to find a spot where 
he might pour out his feelings before the only One 
from whom he hoped to obtain relief — even Him 
before whose throne he had been taught from early 
childhood to bow. Here, where no human eye 
beheld him, he wept without restraint — he looked 
up to the fitful sky, where sunshine and shade 
were alternating, as if struggling for the mastery, 
and implored the Great Father of heaven to pity 
his desolation and, strengthen him to perform the 
hard duties that he was able to perceive yet lay 
before him. 

“ My mother !” he cried ; “ 0 why did I disobey 
her ! if I had not forgotten her admonition, if I 
had not turned a deaf ear to the last injunction 
of my father, I should at this moment be happy 
with them all at Steinrode; but bless them all, 
Heavenly Father, and bless me ; and let this sore 
trial, which thou hast permitted, work the change 
in my impatient spirit, which my dear mother’s 
precepts, earnest as they were, could not.” 

He rose from his posture of supplication, feeling 
comforted ; for there is “ no horizon so dark but 
that humble, heartfelt prayer can lift the veil ” 
that shrouds it, and penetrate far, far beyond. 
The earth may be dark and desolate, but hope in 
God stands forth as the pillar of fire to guide the 
pilgrim; and prayer avails to smooth the asperities 
and disentangle the perplexities of our earthly 


116 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

path; and when thoughts become prayers, the 
peace they bring passes “ all understanding.” 

Believing that the eye of God rested upon him 
here, even as it did upon the beloved ones at Stein- 
rode, he resolved, though separated from them, to 
live as much like them as possible ; and although 
his heart sickened at the thought that he no more 
might see that beloved home, he determined to 
rule his spirit as diligently as if there ; the very 
feeling that he was thus obeying the precepts of 
his beloved and far-distant mother, formed a link 
between him and the absent ; or rather it was a 
spiritual bond between them, which, though many 
have experienced, is of too subtle a nature to be 
analysed. 

He dried his tears, and returned to the hovel, 
which he now called his home, and where he found 
Dietrich and Eugene in high dispute ; the former 
having overheard the conversation between himself 
and the latter, although he had not noticed it at 
the time, was ready to take every advantage of the 
knowledge it afforded, to press the discipline 
demanded by such a refractory spirit ; and as Felix 
came forward, his whip was raised to strike, a mode 
of correction which he ever found more effective 
than his voice ; and though not naturally cruel, he 
used without compunction. Ere the blow, however, 
had this time fallen, Felix caught the upraised arm, 
and even, at the risk of provoking displeasure, 


TIIE neighbors’ children. 117 

m 

which, although it had never yet been turned 
towards himself, he yet dreaded, ventured to inter- 
cede for the culprit. 

The soft tones of his voice mollified the wrath 
of the angry man. The whip was dropped, and 
turning his stern eyes in which tears were now 
glistening, he laid his hard horny hand upon the 
head of the fair boy who pleaded so feelingly for 
another, and said, “Boy, if he had been like you, 
I should not have been what I now am ; he has 
himself to thank. Yet he must be taught to feel 
by some one, and he may find a harder master than 
myself among those whom he could not injure as 
he has done me. For your sake, and yours only, 
I will spare him.” 

Such scenes were of not unfrequent occurrence ; 
and although Eugene abated not in the slightest 
his insolent behaviour to Dietrich, Felix by little 
and little won his love. He was not ashamed to 
beg him, whom he once loved to designate as a 
dancing bear, to stand between him and his enemy ; 
and when Dietrich spoke of releasing Felix, and 
restoring him to his parents, of entreating him 
with many tears not to forsake him. 

“01 shall die — I shall die of grief if you leave 
me alone in this horrible place, and with this unfeel- 
ing man. I have no one here, Felix, who cares for 
me but yourself, and I shall die if you forsake me.” 

Felix promised that the favor he had won from 


118 THE NEIGHBORS' CHILDREN. 

Dietrich should he used to further his interest 
equally with his own — he would take advantage of 
every mood in which he dare plead for the libera- 
tion of both ; “ but, dear Eugene, you ought to be 
more patient, and try to be more obedient and 
yielding to the old man’s will. He would not be 
half so hard if you were not so rebellious.” 

But alas ! this was all without effect. Eugene, 
trained up to value himself, on acount of his rank, 
more highly than others, could not at once learn 
to submit. He had never been taught to obey 
even his parents — no salutary restraint was ever 
laid upon his actions; and now, with all he was 
suffering, he remained the same. There are some 
natures that grow harder under the pressure of 
affliction, and his was one of that kind. No reli- 
gious teaching, in the years when the plastic mind 
is easily impressed, had been used to show him that 
man is not made for himself alone. No precept, 
from the lips of a judicious mother, taught him to 
look for an all-pervading spirit in the realms of 
nature, or explain to him that One, great, glorious, 
and good, had come from above, dispensing life 
and hope to those who were “dead in trespasses 
and in sin;” and, bestowing the benefits he died to 
secure, impartially, bids man welcome man as his 
brother, and the rich to acknowledge brotherhood 
with the lowly. The training to such thoughts as 
these, with which pious mothers always endeavor 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 119 

to fill the first place in the minds of their children, 
had been totally neglected in the education of this 
poor boy ; and it was scarcely to be expected that 
the impression made by years of luxurious ease, 
and criminal self-indulgence, should be effaced by 
the privations and severities of a few weeks. A 
sterner ordeal than he had yet undergone was 
needed. With young Lindenburg, the case was 
different. The instruction received at the time 
before the mind is distracted with the excitement 
that belongs to maturer years, lay deeply hidden 
in his heart ; and now, in his day of distress, the 
sweet impression of the truths uttered by his mo- 
ther, so strongly associated with the home he loved 
to recall, appeared in their full value in those 
moments when, but for them, no drop of comfort 
would have been mingled in his earthly cup. 

From the day we have tried to describe, when 
the exercises of his own and Eugene’s mind were 
so different, he was a changed person. His excel- 
lent education had taught him to entertain a high 
sense of moral duty, which, from what he had 
learned of Christian conduct, he thought he had 
practised; but now, although he could not have 
described his own views, he went much further 
than to be contented with this. He found, from 
the struggle he had to endure in the conquest of 
his own temper, that the Christian’s life is one of 
warfare ; and while his soul was pained to bo 


120 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

obliged to interfere in tbe scenes of violence which 
so often occurred between Dietrich and Eugene, 
and to witness the ungovernable rage by which the 
latter at times was swayed, how thankful was he to 
have been taught better things ! 

He could go, when his spirit was sad, to a source 
which is ever open to the broken-hearted — to the 
fount of mercy ; where pure and humble prayer is 
never rejected, and lean for support upon the arm 
that is never shortened so that it cannot save. It 
was deep anguish of soul that led him to pray — 
anguisn such as we can scarce conceive of a child 
enduring, did we not know that such things are, 
and had we not experienced that it is deep anguish 
of soul which brings us to the closest communion 
with God. Those are the seasons, whether the 
subject be child or man, when the Spirit makes 
intercession for us with groanings that cannot be 
uttered ; for the Searcher of hearts knoweth what 
is the mind of the Spirit, and will always answer, 
if not to our wish, according to our need. 

Weeks of monotonous sameness now passed over 
them, varied only by seasons of deeper or greater 
gloom, as hope alternated with despair. Eugene 
was by no means improved; and although Felix 
pleaded his cause most earnestly with Dietrich, he 
had not been able to effect anything in his favor. 

“He is not in the least humbled,” was the con- 
stant answer ; “ and I am determined to make him 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 121 

feel what oppression is ; when did his heart know 
pity for any ? when did he do aught to make* one 
human being’s suffering less?” 

“But, Dietrich,” Felix would urge, “Eugene is 
to be pitied more than blamed ; remember he never 
was taught as I have been, and he cannot now in a 
moment distinguish right from wrong.” 

“ He has a spirit of perverseness entirely his 
own ; and he shall go through a school in which it 
shall be tamed. Boy, urge me no further on that 
head, for I am not to be moved; but for yourself I 
am sincerely sorry that you have been made to 
suffer ; and although you are now my only earthly 
comfort, still I will restore you to your home the 
first moment I can do so with safety.” 

“ But you are not happy ; you surely would not 
wear that sad look if you were,” replied Felix; 
“ the vengeance you are exercising on that poor 
boy has failed to bring comfort to yourself ; would 
it not be better to do as our Saviour has com- 
manded, 4 not to avenge ourselves, but give place to 
wrath,’ to love our enemies, and pray for them that 
injure us.” 

“ You speak like one should,” said the unhappy 
man, in nowise offended by the liberty taken by his 
young companion, “ that has seen life without any 
of its shadows ; till lately you did not know that it 
had any. But what if, like me, you had lost your 
all — had known that those you loved were turned 
11 


122 THE neighbors’ children. 

out upon the wastes of the cold world to suffer, 
whilst you, enclosed within the walls of a prison, 
were prevented from doing what was your duty — 
to know that the life of your only child, the star 
of your existence, the flower — the only flower that 
bloomed for you amid the thorns and brambles of 
a life of degradation and continued labor — was 
considered, by those who claimed my liberty as 
their right, as of less value than that of a dog ; to 
be denied the expression of a grief so natural, and 
without a word of sympathy, to send money by a 
menial as if to pay me for the life of my only child 
— boy, it drives to madness yet to think of it ; you 
could, if you had suffered all this, imagine how 
sweet revenge must be. The bondsman in his 
cheerless life cannot forget the feelings of a father, 
and that he is a man, any more than he can change 
the vile laws that have made him so, and chains 
him whom God has made free to the soil.” 

“But neither Eugene nor his father is to be 
blamed for this,” said Felix; “I have often heard 
my father regret that things were as they are, and 
likewise say that the laws of feudal tenure were 
greatly milder in Germany than in other countries.” 

“I know all that,” returned Dietrich; “but that 
does not make any of them right ; no laws can be 
right which make it just for one man to tyrannize 
over another.” 

Felix was too young to venture to talk with one 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 123 

whose spirit was so embittered on a subject of such 
high political interest as this, “ that cause betwixt 
the high and the low — the few that command, and 
the many that obey ; ” but, boy as he was, he 
thought that if Dietrich hated tyranny so thoroughly 
he ought not to exercise it himself on one so young 
as Eugene, who, although very faulty, was not to 
be blamed for the laws that make one a noble and 
the other a peasant. In the present mood of his 
mind, however, he did not consider it safe to urge 
this view of the subject ; but chose rather to lead 
him to the contemplation of another, and induce him 
to study the code of laws laid down for the good 
of mankind in general, by one who has said, “ my 
kingdom is not of this world.” 

“ I know, Dietrich, this is a painful subject, and 
I am too much of a boy to understand it thoroughly; 
but it is the Scriptures that tell us that it is God 
who appoints to every man his condition in life, 
enjoining upon those doing service to do it 4 as to 
the Lord, and not to men, knowing that whatso- 
ever good thing any man doeth, the same shall he 
receive of the Lord, whether he be bond or free.’ 
But if he who was the Lord of heaven came down 
and took upon himself the form of a servant, and 
humbled himself for the salvation of many, why 
should we think so much of stations ? and if he 
condescended to associate with the unlearned and 
lowly, ought we not rather to know from it that he 






124 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


is no respecter of persons, that the rich and poor 
are equal in his sight, and so be contented with the 
lot he has assigned us.” 

Dietrich made no answer, hut leaned his head 
upon his hand, and gazed moodily into the fire; 
but a softening change was visible in his whole 
deportment; and although Felix could make no 
impression on him in regard to Eugene, who seemed 
every day to grow more refractory, he ceased to 
correct him so frequently as at first, and contented 
himself with muttering something between his teeth 
which the boys could not understand ; and as their 
household, in consequence of this cessation from 
violence, was more quiet than formerly, time sped 
on rather more pleasantly; and Felix, with the 
ever hoping spirit of youth, looked forward to 
better things. 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


125 


CHAPTER VII. 

“He that commits a sin shall quickly find 
The pressing guilt lay heavy on his mind ; 

None quits himself — his own impartial thought 
Will chide; and conscience will record the fault.” 

Autumn had long since exchanged her garb of 
many tints for one of russet hue ; and this again 
was thrown off, as if for readiness to battle with 
the fierce winds that swept from the Carpathian 
mountains over the plains, and left the forest bare ; 
and the trees, spreading forth their naked and 
gigantic branches, seemed to wait with impatient 
quietude the storms for which they were prepared. 
The moaning blasts took the place of the sweet 
harmonies that had lately mingled there ; and cold 
gray skies had long before warned the feathered 
choristers that it was time to seek a warmer home. 
Heaps of fallen leaves, or fir cones, swept together 
by the tempests as in rushing haste they passed 
by, strewed the spots where wild flowers had lately 
bloomed ; and Nature looked sad as she prepared 
for her long sleep in the lap of winter. Flakes 
of snow began to fall; and the boys, to whom the 
approach of the hoary season, as enjoyed in their 
11 * 


126 THE neighbors’ children. 

own country, had hitherto always brought antici- 
pations of delight, as they stood, wretched enough, 
looking out on the dreary scene, wept now with 
dismay at the thoughts of what new misery it 
might bring to themselves, so far from home and 
friends, and prisoners in a place so inclement and 
inhospitable. 

Their out-door occupations were, for the most 
part, suspended ; but this brought no relief from 
the tedium of the hours they were obliged to spend 
in comparative idleness ; books they had none, 
companions none — all was desolate without, and 
not less so was that within. No neighboring 
peasants ever came to the cottage, nor could they 
have held converse with any if they had ; the 
language was yet entirely unknown to them ; and 
the little they had seen of them had indisposed 
them for further companionship. Dietrich’s occu- 
pation of wood-cutting, too, was often suspended, 
and he would pass nearly the whole of the day at 
the pot-house in the village, a circumstance at 
which Felix greatly wondered, for he never drank 
liquor of any kind, indulged in no games of chance, 
and held little communication with any one. The 
boys, consequently, were left much alone; and 
many were the plans they thought over to furnish 
amusement or occupation for themselves in the 
coming winter. Felix mourned over their want of 
books; writing materials they had none, neither 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 127 

were they to be procured in the neighborhood ; and 
the knowledge that he was unable to advance in 
such studies as ought to be learned at his age, 
added to the uncertainty of his situation, weighed 
heavily upon his heart, and filled it with a deeper 
gloom than the shadow of the unhappy circum- 
stances in which he was placed could have done, 
had the means of improvement been within his 
reach. Eugene cared not much on this account ; 
perhaps the tedium of the life he now was obliged 
to live might have driven him to read, had books 
been at his disposal ; as it was, he did nothing but 
weep and complain, thus adding an additional 
burthen to that young, but faithful, friend, who 
concealed much of his own feelings in order to 
lighten those of another, whose education and 
moral training had less qualified him to bear the 
roughnesses of life than himself. 

But the mind of man is fertile in expedients ; 
and one soon offered itself to that of this good boy, 
which should be made subservient to the improve- 
ment and amusement of both. Mr. Bulow had 
often praised his talent for drawing, as exhibited 
in his copies of animals from books, or specimens 
of Natural History, which was a study, as in the 
beginning of our narrative we remarked, to which 
he much inclined. With coals from half-burnt 
wood he made his crayons ; with flexible bark 
which he stripped from the birch and larch that 


128 THE neighbors’ children. 

grew in abundance there, he first divesting it of 
the outer rind, flattened and made his tablets ; and 
finding it to answer very well, proposed to teach 
Eugene to draw ; and, besides, from this new dis- 
covery they need not forget their writing, since 
they could make letters on this primitive substance 
for paper as well as figures. 

Faithful to his own purpose to conciliate Dietrich, 
he showed him his invention and his first work, an 
act at which Eugene was greatly displeased, and 
quarrelled with him for it, taxing him with hypoc- 
risy and meanness, in cringing, as he termed it, 
to “ one so greatly beneath them, and one whom 
in his heart he loved no better than himself did.” 

Unmoved by the reproach, to which he listened 
with silence, he yet persisted in the course his 
heart told him was right; and the old man was by 
no means displeased; for although he never ex- 
pressed his approbation in words, he one day pre- 
sented Felix, greatly to his surprise, with a bundle 
of neatly prepared bark, and a few sheets of coarse 
paper, which he had taken great pains to obtain, 
and not without some expense. 

So the winter came, and was less dreary than 
they had anticipated ; and if Eugene had pursued 
a proper course of conduct, it is most likely spring 
would have found them on their way to Germany, 
and their home. Christmas, indeed, awoke sad 
recollections in the hearts of both ; different as had 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


129 


been the scenes of enjoyment they had separately 
partaken of the year before, the renewal of that 
festival time brought equal sadness to the trio. 
Dietrich was more sorrowful than usual ; Felix 
thought of all they were then doing at Steinrode, 
and wondered if all were going on as formerly ; 
and Eugene, poor boy, who had no home to think 
of, w r as more unhappy than ever ; and being more 
unhappy, made himself in the same degree more 
disagreeable. Felix did the best of all; the sweet 
calm of peace that dwelt in his heart, the fruit of 
his pious submission to the trial dealt him by the 
Unerring Hand, had its own reward — he had bent 
to the storm, and was spared — it passed over and 
left him uninjured ; had he resisted like Eugene, 
both would have been lost. 

Dietrich, the workings of whose heart were only 
known to himself, had done his utmost to make 
them comfortable on that day. A fine fat fowl 
that he had purchased somewhere, graced their 
rude table; and some striezel huchen , which he 
had himself instructed the neighboring peasant- 
woman how to bake (for they were ignorant of the 
preparation of this article of German cookery), 
gave a luxurious appearance to their hitherto not 
scanty, but rough menage , and served still further 
to recall the happy scenes in which they had 
revelled the year before. 

The winter passed slowly. Dietrich’s absences 


130 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


became long and frequent, and Eugene grew more 
unruly, and further provoked his hatred; and so 
time, as it rolled onward, brought no pleasing 
changes to the dwellers in that secluded cottage. 
The seasons succeeded to each other in their regu- 
lar rotation. Spring smiled in her green robe — 
the summer brought her birds and flowers — autumn 
his fruits — and winter his snows; but no friend 
came, with cheering face, to comfort our boys, or 
bring tidings from those their hearts yearned to 
behold. We will not detail further the routine of 
miserable life dragged on by all three ; one day 
served as a specimen for all the rest. Suffice it to 
say, that more than two years had passed in the 
manner we have attempted to describe, when its 
dull monotony was one day interrupted when Die- 
trich, returning from the ale-house with a sterner 
brow than usual, he commanded Eugene to get his 
clothes together, and accompany him to a village 
some miles distant. 

“I have hired you there to a master,” said he, 
“who will teach you to obey. You shall there 
learn what it is to work, and earn your bread by 
the sweat of your brow.” 

No words can describe the consternation caused 
by this announcement to both the boys, but most 
particularly to Eugene, who regarded a separation 
from Felix as his greatest possible misfortune. He 
had quarrelled with him — brow-beaten him on all 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


131 


occasions — disregarded all his admonitions; hut 
still, the steady patience with which all his fretful- 
ness was borne, excited his admiration, and won 
his love. Felix was his all, his only comfort; and 
now he was to he parted from him on whom he 
had leaned for support in his day of trial — he who 
had so often turned away the wrath of his enemy, 
and who had himself performed his allotted tasks 
when he was too unable or too indolent to attempt 
them. He who, until lately, had known nothing 
but to command and be obeyed, must now go, and 
go alone, to be servant to a rude farmer, and sub- 
mit to treatment — ah ! he dared not think like 
what. 0, how willingly would he have remained 
in that lowly hut, that, with Felix there, was a 
palace in comparison w r ith the one anticipated, and 
even with that dark old man, whom now he did not 
so much fear ; and bitterly now did he regret his 
own obstinacy in not having followed the counsels 
of his friend. 

He threw himself at the feet of Dietrich, and 
prayed that he would not send him away. He 
embraced his enemy’s knees, and promised obe- 
dience and amendment ; begged only to be tried 
one w r eek longer, that the sincerity of his intended 
change might be proved. But a deaf ear was 
turned to all entreaties both from himself and 
Felix ; the unpitying answer was 

“ Your reformation comes too late ; I told you 


182 THE neighbors’ children. 

long ago what I would do, and I always keep my 
word. Nor will I break it now ; I have promised 
the farmer — the bargain is concluded — drawing 
back is not to be thought of now;” and, as if 
afraid that his own stern purpose might be melted 
by the witnessing of sorrow to which he was by no 
means insensible, he put on a darker frown than 
usual, and giving no time to the unhappy compa- 
nions for leave-taking, he took Eugene rather 
ungently by the arm, and in a harsher voice than 
he had ever used to Felix, he commanded him not 
to leave the hut until his return. He turned his 
back upon its threshold, dragging rather than 
leading the hapless boy along the path that led 
across the forest. 

The day was bright and lovely — the birds sung 
in the branches — and zephyrs sighed through the 
foliage ; but Felix, who remained behind according 
to the orders he never disobeyed, had no eye or 
ear for anything. How prone are mortals to 
believe that even in intense suffering there is no 
mercy extended — that in seasons of darkness no 
ray of light can be discovered ! No cup was ever 
yet given to man to drink, that drops of comfort 
did not mitigate its bitterness — nor was he ever 
yet shrouded by gloom so great, but that it might 
have been increased. So poor Felix experienced ; 
a few days before, when his heart was pained by 
an altercation carried on more angrily than usual, 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 133 

between Dietrich and Eugene, he was tempted to 
exclaim, “Can any thing be worse than this?” 
Now the alternative had come, and although one 
cause of painful disquiet and apprehension was re- 
moved, the thoughts of the dreary solitude in which 
he would be left, but yet more the uncertainty of 
Eugene’s lot ; the effect, if he should survive the 
hardships certain to be imposed upon him, this 
removal would have upon his character, awoke the 
tenderest sympathies of his nature ; and the 
bitterest tears he had shed since leaving Steinrode, 
were poured out there, as be sat solitary and alone. 

Vague fears, as hour after hour passed, and 
Dietrich did not return, weighed upon the boy’s 
heart, and added new horrors to his contempla- 
tions. Perhaps he never would come back — per- 
haps it was his own duty to take advantage of this 
opportunity to seek his own freedom, and more 
than once he started up to fly from the hated spot, 
but the thought “whither?” arrested the hasty 
step, and stayed the imprudent longing. How was 
he to make his way through a country of whose 
localities he was entirely ignorant, with whose 
language he was altogether unacquainted, without 
means of procuring subsistence on so long a jour- 
ney as lay between him and his native land ? He 
might fall into worse servitude than even the pre- 
sent ; and besides, he felt it would be wrong, with 
so slight a hope of success as his plan of escape 
12 


134 THE neighbors’ children. 

presented, to leave Eugene in a strange land, and 
in a place of which neither knew the name. That 
they were in Poland he believed — that the moun- 
tains he saw were the Carpathian, he imagined — 
hut of this there was no certainty ; and the mighty 
river, that roared and rushed at no great distance 
from their dwelling, might prove the boundary of 
a people more savage than those among whom 
they had come. 

Tears exhausted the violence of his feelings ; 
prayer once more strengthened his courage, and 
prudence came to his aid, and her reasoning voice 
assisted in restoring his painfully excited soul to 
its wonted calm. 

“ There is nothing left for me to do,” said he to 
himself, “ but to try and please Dietrich. I will 
try and bear the increased ills of my lot patiently, 
in hopes that I shall he able to move the heart of 
that stern old man. I trust I shall yet succeed in 
obtaining Eugene’s liberty and pardon from him. 
0, my mother ! my dear mother !” (he wept aloud 
as he recalled her gentle image, and her last holy 
kiss), “ how often have you told me my impatient 
spirit must be subdued, ere I could be either useful 
or happy! I am now in a school of discipline 
harder than you would have desired, but perhaps 
not more so than my Heavenly Father sees neces- 
sary.” 

The day began to decline ; and as evening spread 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


135 


her shadows over the forest, gusts of wind swept 
through its dark recesses, and wailing among the 
branches like the voices of the unquiet spirits sup- 
posed to inhabit those rude regions where supersti- 
tion rules, added to the desolation of the boy’s 
condition, as well as increased the fears arising 
from his master’s continued absence. It was, 
therefore, with a feeling of relief he saw, ere dark- 
ness quite obscured the view, his tall figure advanc- 
ing on the forest path ; and he started up to light 
their miserable rush candle, and make some neces- 
sary preparations, glad to have his painful medita- 
tions broken by the presence of any human being. 

Dietrich walked more slowly than usual; and 
Felix had time to do all he wished ere the former 
reached his dwelling. As he stepped over the 
threshold it was evident he was pleased to find that 
his prisoner had not taken advantage of his long 
absence to effect his escape ; but he made no re- 
mark whatever ; and to such questions as Felix 
dared to ask, he answered only in monosyllables, 
but in tones more indicative of sadness than dis- 
pleasure. The boy, therefore, did not venture to 
mention ‘the name of Eugene, nor to prefer the 
request he meditated for the liberty of both. Re- 
solved to humor the old man in whatever mood he 
might be, he went on silently performing the offices 
w’hich heretofore had been allotted to him who was 
no longer here ; and having placed a dish of warm 


136 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


milk porridge on the table, he called him to supper, 
and then seated himself sad and desponding in a 
corner by the fire. 

Dietrich obeyed his bidding ; he finished his 
meal, and having pushed the dish away, he leaned 
his arm on the table, and shading his brow with his 
broad hand, sat gazing on the fair boy for a long 
time in silence, less gloomy than sorrowful. 

“ He is a pretty boy and a good,” he at length 
muttered to himself ; “I am sorry this sin rests 
upon my soul. Tell me, child,” said he, raising his 
voice, “ what are you thinking of at this moment ; 
do you not long to go back to your home and 
parents ?” 

“ To my home and parents?” exclaimed Felix, 
starting up and clasping his hands, while tears 
streamed from his eyes, and sobs of emotion choked 
his utterance ; “ Heavenly Father grant it. I 
think of them always; long for them ever, and 
would wander day and night on foot, and over ways 
the most painful, only to see them all once more.” 

“Well then you shall go,” said Dietrich abruptly, 
and in a voice not altogether firm ; “ I will give 
you your freedom and the means to travel ; but 
you must first promise me solemnly — do you hear 
me, boy?” 

But Felix understood only one sentence of what 
he had said. “You shall go,” sounded like a 
reprieve from death to a criminal ; and he repeated 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 137 

it again and again in joyful succession, without 
thinking of any condition by which the permission 
was fettered. 

“ 0, you will let me go, you will let me go,” he 
exclaimed, as he embraced the knees of his captor, 
and turned his blue eyes, from whence the tears 
were pouring, up to look into those whose fountains 
had long been dry ; “ may God reward you, dear 
Dietrich ! I will pray for you, and so will we all, 
that you may be as happy as ourselves, and no 
longer so sorrowful over things that cannot now be 
helped. But tell me, what do you desire of me, 
what must I promise?” 

Dietrich answered slowly and in a low voice : 
“ That you will never betray to any man what you 
witnessed at the time you left your home, nor what 
has occurred since you have lived here ; never re- 
veal the name (if indeed you know it) of this place ; 
above all, you must deny ever having had any 
knowledge of Eugene. Of him you are to know 
nothing ; he is only enduring a fate which he has 
but too well deserved. You can tell your parents 
you were carried off by gipsies, and was obliged 
to wander with them, until at last you found a 
chance to run away. Will you promise most 
sacredly to do this, and as sacredly to keep your 
word ? ” 

“ Never!” answered the beautiful boy, firmly 
but sadly, “ never. I will never seek my home 

12 * 


138 THE neighbors’ children. 

with a lie on my lips ; for my parents have taught 
me to abhor falsehood ; and when my father would 
ask me w r here I had been, think you I would try 
to deceive him from whom I never yet had any 
concealments? My Heavenly Father,” he con- 
tinued, folding his hands and looking upwards, 
“now I know what it is to be tempted ; now I feel 
what lures the enemy spreads to veil the deformity 
of sin. But I will keep Thee ever before mine eyes 
— thou shalt be as a lamp to my path, that my feet 
may never stray ; no — rather let me die than sin 
so greatly.” 

Overcome by the force of his emotion, he sobbed 
aloud ; but he soon grew calm — the victory had 
been obtained — the might and strength of God 
had interposed between him and a powerful temp- 
tation to sin ; and now that the tempter was 
distanced, he felt himself ready to bear whatever 
might follow. 

Think not, reader, that this picture of a child 
being able to discover the “ exceeding sinfulness 
of sin,” is overdrawn ; or that a boy of Felix’s 
age could so easily withstand being tempted to a 
sin which many might think venial, and for which 
sophistry might find a thousand excuses. The 
Scriptures say to all, “ Sin not and the excellent 
education he had received — more excellent in its 
teaching him of Christian duty according to the 
precepts of the Son of God, who came to teach us 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 139 

what to do and what to believe, than even in that 
part which was to fit him for his worldly career — 
had given him an aegis of which he did not know 
the power, or suspect the possession, until on this 
the day of his trial. In the day of his prosperity 
it shielded him from the deceitful glare that dazzled 
Eugene, and for which, since that was withdrawn, 
he had no substitute ; and now, when the tempest 
was abroad, and he alone and exposed to its fury, 
it was his protection and his guide. Truth, the 
great principal of Christian life and* conduct, had 
been placed in too lovely an aspect before him for 
him to forget her now — his duty was plain — the 
issue rested with God. 

With his stony eyes fastened on the boy, on 
whose fair features the blush of excited hope had 
so lately glowed, only to fade into marble paleness, 
the astonished old man gazed long and in silence, 
as if awed by the majesty of virtue, although ex- 
hibited in the form of a child. At last the old 
man spoke. 

“ So then you would rather remain in this deso- 
late region, separated from your parents for many, 
many long years, which you must do, since you 
will not promise to conceal what you know?” 

“Yes,” answered Felix; “if I cannot go to 
them without the knowledge of a deliberate sin on 
my soul — without giving you a promise that would 
stain me with falsehood, and consequently with 


140 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

crime. How could I enjoy the purity of my home 
by going as a liar among them — could I look my 
own or Eugene’s parents in the face, when I knew 
their only son, for whom they pined, was enduring 
slavery in its worst form ; when one word from me 
— one word which I dared not utter — would re- 
move their misery ? No, Dietrich, I will not go ; 
do with me as you please ; men may 4 kill the 
body,’ but I fear it not, for my trust is in Him who 
alone hath power to save the soul, and who will 
put forth his -arm to help me when he sees I have 
profited enough by my present sufferings.” 

Dietrich urged his measure no further, but sat 
in the same spot in brooding silence, and buried 
his face in both his hands, as if ashamed to meet 
the glance of a child whose principles, so firmly 
based upon the Rock of Ages, so strong in the 
faith of heavenly protection, led him patiently to 
choose a lot of wrong and oppression, rather than 
commit what he believed a heinous sin. And now 
as this boy, shielded in his panoply of truth, stood 
before him, he recognized its beauty and its power, 
and, for the first time, his conscience began to 
accuse him, since his vengeance had been directed 
to the ruin of the family of Yon Grosse. 

Dietrich was not ignorant of the holy truths 
contained in the Word of God. Meditative and 
thoughtful by nature, while blessed with an excel- 
lent wife and happy home, he had pondered much 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 141 

upon them ; but the pride it might be, that lay un- 
suspected by himself, and formed the root of his 
hatred to the nobility, while it rendered him dis- 
contented with his own lot, and led him to question 
the existence, or at least the justice of God, who 
appoints to every man his station, prevented his 
deriving the comfort from such study as would 
have been fruit to a more humble and salvation- 
seeking spirit. None could tell him better than he 
knew the precept which teaches, “ avenge not 
yourselves,” nor of that glorious example of One 
who loved a world that hated him, and when re- 
viled, “ even as a lamb dumb before her shearers, 
so he opened not his mouth to revile again.” And 
now that conscience, so fully awoke, had begun her 
admonitions, she placed his every action in the 
most glaring and frightful review before him, since 
the hour in which he had sworn revenge against 
his thoughtless enemy — laid his house in ashes, 
robbed him of his only son, and condemned him, 
while yet a child, to bondage and poverty, from 
which there was little chance he would be rescued ; 
and as though the enemy of souls had resolved to 
heap more crimes upon his soul than his vengeance 
contemplated, he had injured a family who pitied 
and would have relieved his misfortunes, involving 
a darling son in the reckless ruin prepared for an 
enemy, without compunction. 

We can say but little in this case of Dietrich, as 


142 THE neighbors’ children. 

to the extent or acceptance of his repentance ; he 
had sinned deeply, although his wrongs were great ; 
and he had repaid them with double interest ; and 
we dare pass no sentence upon him ; we only know 
that there is One “mighty to save” all that come 
to God by him. No spiritual malady is so 
desperate that He cannot cure it; no sin whose 
stain is so great that it cannot be washed away in 
the blood of atonement ; none so vile but that the 
shadow of the Cross can give protection when some 
dark spirit of the pit would tempt him to despair. 

Many, many were the thoughts of deep and 
searching import that awoke in the mind of the 
unhappy man; but one in particular which he 
could not lose sight of — if this boy, brought up in 
Christian faith, so abhorred all practice of wrong 
and injustice, that he would choose to live a life of 
poverty, bondage, and privation, far from his home 
and parents, rather than break one command of 
the God whom he professed to serve — if, as he said, 
he could not face those virtuous parents with a 
stain of falsehood on his soul, how should himself, 
when called to the great account, stand before the 
awful Judge in whose hands he had refused to 
leave his cause, but chosen rather to sacrifice his 
all, even to the hope of salvation, on the altar of 
his revenge ? 

He thought of his humble and quiet wife — how 
badly he had cared for her comfort, and of the 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 143 

consequent hardships that had consigned her to the 
grave — of his sweet smiling innocent little Annie, 
whose prattle ever cheered him, and whose merry 
laugh could drive away his moodiness — if they 
were angels in heaven, as his simple belief had 
taught him to suppose, could he hope to meet them 
there — what right had one like him in that pure 
abode — could their purified spirits assimilate with 
his own, even if admitted to to that world where no 
tears are shed? 

His tortured soul now knew no peace by day or 
night ; and contrary to his usual habit of sobriety, 
he tried to drown his painful reflections by visits 
to the village ale-house, and steep his senses in the 
forgetfulness caused by intoxicating draughts. 

But this course of conduct did not succeed. 
Felix was as a thorn in his eye, a steady reproof to 
his conscience ; and he could only hope to find 
peace by removing him from his path. But how 
to accomplish this he could not contrive ; if the 
hoy returned to his parents and told his story, both 
Amade and himself could be traced and brought to 
justice ; and the indecision he was obliged to main- 
tain, as well as the disquietude of his own mind, 
soured his temper to a greater degree than hereto- 
fore ; and his capricious bearing now rendered the 
lot of the poor boy nearly unbearable. 

Yet steady to himself, and faithful to the rules 
laid down for his own practice, he bore all the 


144 THE neighbors’ children. 

hard requisitions demanded by his master without 
murmuring. 

If he was sorrowful, which truly was often the 
case, Dietrich was angry, and abused him ; for this 
he considered a reproach against himself for sepa- 
rating him from Eugene ; was he merry, a mood in 
which he was now seldom found, then the old man 
envied him the peace produced by a quiet con- 
science ; and he reproached him w T ith hypocrisy in 
forcing spirits, that he might contrast his happiness 
with his own gloom. This was another hard trial 
for Felix ; but he bore it manfully — he knew 
patience was demanded of the martyr, and forbear- 
ance of the Christian. 

Months passed away, and he heard nothing of 
Eugene. The spring once more mellowed into 
summer, the summer into autumn ; the forest again 
began to wear its varied livery, when one day 
Dietrich came home at an earlier hour than usual 
from his work in the wood. In felling a tree some 
days before, he had wounded his foot with an axe ; 
and although urged by Felix to keep quiet and 
give the wound time to heal, strong ever in his own 
self-will, he would not listen to- him ; but, binding 
it up roughly, he continued to go to w r ork as usual. 
Owing to this imprudence, and the heated state of 
his blood, fever came on ; and as he entered the 
hut on this afternoon, he complained of being very 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 145 

sick ; and ere evening came on, he was obliged to 
take to his bed. 

It was now that Felix could fairly prove his 
kindness to the suffering old man. He was his 
only comfort ; he sat at his bedside and bathed his 
throbbing temples; he arranged and smoothed his 
rude pillow ; he dressed his wounded foot ; bore all 
the querulous complaining, and all the capricious 
demands exacted by his sick master without im- 
patience, or a murmur for the trouble it gave him ; 
so that at length the unhappy being to whom he 
rendered such services declared his presence to be 
a true blessing. 

One day when he had suffered more pain than 
usual from his wounded foot, and Felix had pre- 
pared a cooling poultice, as he approached the bed 
in order to apply it, Dietrich caught him by the 
hand, and looking up into his clear blue eyes, said, 
“ Poor boy ! I have wronged you greatly ; and you 
may well be glad if it should go hard with me. I 
cannot bear it much longer ; and then my death 
will leave you free to go wherever you choose.” 

“ Truly,” answered the boy, and his open and 
ingenuous countenance bore witness to the sincerity 
of his heart, U I have not once thought of your 
dying, much less wished it; and although lately 
you have been more harsh to me then you were at 
first, and I know not why it is so, yet I would 
do any thing to relieve your pain ; if your recov- 
13 


146 THE neighbors’ children. 

ery depended on my wishes, you would soon be 
well.” 

“What, boy! can you wish me to be w T ell,” 
inquired the sick man, who understood no feeling 
so well as that of the desire for vengeance; “thou 
dost not then hate the rough and passionate old 
man who has made thee to shed so many, and such 
bitter tears ?” 

“ I hate no one,” replied Felix, innocently ; 
“no, indeed; but I pray that God may soften your 
heart, and dispose it to pity and compassion. I 
have read in the Scriptures, ‘it is an awful thing 
to stand before the living God;’ and how, then, 
could I wish for the death of any man ? If I did, 
I were no better than a murderer.” 

“JBoy, boy,” sighed Dietrich, “your words 
pierce through my heart like a sword. You do not 
hate your bitterest enemy, one that has done you 
so much wrong ; you do not wish for his death, 
although by that you should secure your liberty, 
and regain your home ! There must be truth in 
the religion you have learned, for it makes you 
consistent ; but oh ! what a sinner I have been ! 
Whither shall I go for peace? Where shall I 
hope to find grace and mercy, in this my hour of 
anguish and necessity ? I, that closed my ears to 
the prayer of the unoffending.” 

Deeply moved by the emotion of the despairing 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 147 

old man, Felix could scarcely command his own, 
while, in faltering voice, he rejoined. 

“ I remember many passages from the Bible 
which would comfort you, if you would receive 
them, but one just now in particular ; it is this — 
‘ If any 'man sin, we have an advocate with the 
Father, even Jesus Christ the righteous, who died 
not only for our sins, but the sins of the whole 
world and I have often heard our pastor say, 
‘ that although our sins be as scarlet, they could 
be made white as snow through Him who died to 
procure salvation for all that believe in Him.’ ” 

He stopped, for his heart was too full to pro- 
ceed ; Dietrich folded his hands as if in prayer, 
and lay with his eyes closed, and perfectly still. 
The leaves of the forest rustled in the autumn 
breeze — the lark sung gaily as she mounted to the 
heavens — the sun lightened the gloomy cottage 
with his cheerful rays — and the impression, alto- 
gether, made upon the boy’s heart, recalled images 
of home-joys, and created an unconquerable long- 
ing to be among his own, his loved ones again. He 
thought of his beautiful home, his parents, his 
happy brother, and joyous sisters ; of the first, as 
looking on the sports of the latter, as they played 
among the honeysuckles and roses that himself 
once loved so well. Did they think of him, on 
whom one simple act of disobedience had been so 
severely visited ? Large and heavy drops filled 


148 THE neighbors’ children. 

his eyes, and leaning his brow against the little 
casement, he wept softly ; for he feared to disturb 
the meditations of the sick man. A sob, however, 
which he could not repress, aroused the latter from 
his train of deep thought. 

“ Come here, Felix,” said he, in a softer voice 
than he had ever yet spoken, as he raised himself 
up in bed; “come here; I will do you all the good 
I can, while time is yet spared me. Dry up your 
tears; you shall see your home soon now. To- 
morrow morning you shall go to the village where 
Eugene is — he too shall be free.” 

Felix was in doubt whether he rightly under- 
stood; but he remained silent, and Dietrich pro- 
ceeded. 

“You must give the money with which I will 
provide you, to the farmer to whom I have hired 
Eugene ; he will then be set at liberty, and you 
can both go home. My hours are nearly num- 
bered, and I cannot go before the great Judge of 
all with a crime, the enormity of which I could 
not see until lately, so great upon my soul. God, 
in thus opening my eyes to the truth, has been 
more merciful to me than I deserve. I loved Him 
once, but when my day of trial came, I turned 
away and rebelled, when I ought to have sub- 
mitted. Adversity hardened my heart, and so He 
hid his face from me ; yet He did not utterly for- 
sake me, sinner that I am. Wronged as I was, no 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


149 


thought of taking Eugene’s life ever entered into 
my soul. I wished but to make those who had no 
pity, know what it is to suffer ; yet my successful 
vengeance has brought me no soothing — no peace. 
No blessing could rest on the means I used to make 
him better ; but you, my good child, your forbear- 
ance, and simple teaching of the Scripture truths 
you learned at home, softened my hard heart, and 
changed my stern purpose. I bless the hour in 
which you came to me ; and the time will come 
when, in spite of all I have made you suffer, you 
will bless it too ; for, although an ignorant man, 
I know the Scripture says, ‘for blessed is he that 
turneth even one sinner from the error of his 
ways.’ ” 

He stopped for a moment, exhausted. Felix 
w T as too much moved to answer ; and after a short 
silence, the sick man proceeded, as he took a small 
packet from his bosom. 

“See here, boy, here is money; unjustly gained 
it is true, but that sin is not mine, and I have 
never spent one farthing of it on myself. When I 
set fire to Hausdorff Castle, gain was not my 
object; I wanted nothing but revenge. This 
money belongs to Eugene. I exchanged a portion 
of the jewels which Amade stole, and gave to me, 
for it ; and I only accepted of his offer to share 
his ill-gotten treasure, as it promised to assist me 
in the prosecution of my plan of revenge. Go, 
13 * . 


150 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

then, to farmer Woida in the morning, and give 
him half of this money, and he will let Eugene 
free from his bondage ; then come back to me, and 
I will direct you how to proceed, so that in one 
week from this time, you may both be at home. 
When you are there, so happy, do not think of me, 
my boy, with hatred; long ere you reach your 
parents, I shall be standing before the mighty 
Judge.” 

Once more exhausted, the sick man fell back on 
his pillow ; and ere Eelix had time to recover from 
his grateful astonishment, and thank him for this 
unexpected bliss, he had fallen into slumber, or 
rather that stupor produced by weariness. Long 
ere this, night had stolen over the plain, and 
shaded the forest ; but the moon, unshrouded even 
by a gossamer cloud, shone forth in silvery bright- 
ness, and came peering benevolently into the rude 
cottage where death was waiting. All was peace 
without — all was quiet within — save the heart of 
our poor boy, which beat wildly at the thoughts of 
the joys the coming week was to secure. He 
looked upon the face of the sleeper — it wore an 
expression of more calmness than he had ever seen 
rest upon it before ; and having never been in the 
presence of death, he could not recognise its ap- 
proach. 

He retired to the pallet where, heretofore, he 
had found rest after the fatigues of the day ; but 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 151 

the stormy joy that filled his whole being effectually 
distanced sleep. Home, and his family, seemed 
within his reach ; and he could scarcely wait until 
the morning broke, so anxious was he to share this 
happiness with Eugene. Midnight had long passed 
by, ere he enjoyed a temporary oblivion ; but, 
exhausted by the previous excitement, his slumbers 
were heavy, and the sun streaming into his humble 
chamber, showing the day to be far arisen, was the 
first to disturb them. Alarmed at his own sloth- 
fulness, he rose quickly, but without noise, fearful 
of disturbing the sick man, who seemed to sleep 
calmly; hut as he approached the bed, the rigid 
muscles, and marble brow, showed the impress of a 
hand whose seal can never be mistaken. Yet he 
could not believe it to be death who had come so 
silently ; it might be weakness, or excess of pain. 
He bathed the temples with vinegar, and rubbed 
the pulseless wrist ; but the cold and stony touch 
affrighted him — he shrunk back in horror from the 
dead. He wept, and his tears only ceased when 
he thought of a new source of anxiety that min- 
gled itself with his sorrow — he dreaded that as 
soon as Dietrich’s death should be known, some of 
the neighboring villagers, many of them being a 
sort of dependent farmers, might come and claim 
him as a vassal. The thought was fearful; and 
his nerves, so much excited by all he had lately 
passed through, the power of reasoning was for a 


152 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


time suspended ; flight seemed the only means left 
to secure safety. Giving one last look at the 
corpse of one who had wrought so much wrong 
upon him, he left the cottage, after carefully 
closing the door, and ran through field and forest, 
taking the same direction as Dietrich had done on 
the day when he took Eugene to the farmer. 

He had the money in his pocket, and distinctly 
recollected the name of Woida as belonging to 
Eugene’s master ; but that of the farm or village 
where he lived, Dietrich had not mentioned, and 
this latter difficulty troubled him not a little. He 
ran until nearly mid-day, but nothing like a 
farmer’s homestead presented itself to his longing 
eyes ; swamp and forest were passed over in dreary 
succession, and disappointment began to take the 
place of hope. At length, emerging from the 
wood, he came upon a level plain, where the signs 
of civilization became more apparent. The col- 
lier’s cabin, and mud dwelling of the boor, gave 
place to habitations of better construction ; and 
far towards the horizon, as seen in the unobstructed 
distance, smoking chimneys betokened a village. 
In a moment, all weariness was forgotten ; joyful 
anticipations gave more strength to his limbs, the 
intervening space was speedily passed over, and a 
little maiden whom he met at the entrance of the 
hamlet, stood gazing at him in stupid astonishment 
as he asked the question about which he was so 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 153 

anxious, forgetting that she did not understand a 
word he said. The name of farmer Woida at 
length seemed to reach her stolid perception, for 
she pointed to a homestead on the further side of 
the village, the appearance of which was anything 
but inviting. 

At another time, our young hero would not have 
been slow to mark the rude and forbidding features 
of this abode ; but now the thought of liberty and 
home threw its own radiance over all, and lightened 
up the dreary spot ; and so dazzling was that hope- 
ful light, that its squalid and filthy aspect was 
entirely lost sight of. He was sure to find Eugene 
within ; and in the joyful anticipation of what 
feelings the tidings he had to communicate would 
bring to his friend, his countenance beaming with 
an expression peculiar only to the freshness of 
youth, he entered, without ceremony, into the 
dwelling. 

The whole family was seated at the supper-table 
— men and women, the farmer and his servants, 
without distinction ; and only raised their eyes in 
a kind of stupid wonder, to see who it was that 
intruded. The next moment, they proceeded in 
the demolition of gritz and bacon, which they made 
to disappear with a celerity almost wonderful, 
considering that the feat was effected by such 
seemingly obtuse beings. Felix ran his eyes hastily 
over the rude assembly, and the glow faded from 


154 THE neighbors’ children. 

his cheek, and the light from his eyes, as he per- 
ceived that Eugene was not among them. Not 
altogether despairing, although uneasy, he named 
the names of Dietrich and Eugene, and endeavored 
to make himself understood by signs, pointing in 
the direction of the forest and its neighboring 
hamlet. 

The farmer stopped for half a second, and 
stretched his eyes to their utmost extent, as if the 
boy’s meaning were only addressed to his sense of 
seeing ; but as he was in the act of carrying to 
his mouth a spoonful of the mixture on which they 
were all feasting, he deemed it a matter of too 
much importance to be suspended ; he swallowed 
it, and returned with redoubled vigor to the dish, 
bestowing not the slightest attention on our poor 
hero, who was fairly at a loss how to proceed. 

“ There is one sign,” thought Felix, “that all 
men understand, and I will speak to him in lan- 
guage he cannot mistake and drawing the purse 
given him by Dietrich from his pocket, he laid 
half of its contents upon the table. 

The countenance of the boor changed as if by 
magic — the gold had spoken to his heart. He cast 
a longing look upon the money, and spreading 
forth his broad hand, swept it hastily together, 
and buried it in his capacious pocket ; at the same 
time speaking a few words to one of his servants, 
who, without the slightest visible emotion, rose in 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 155 

an instant, and approached the boy. Never doubt- 
ing but that the boor was about to conduct him to 
where Eugene was to be found, his courage once 
more began to revive ; but what was his astonish- 
ment to find himself rudely caught up by a pair 
of powerful arms, and in spite of all his struggles, 
carried forth to the court-yard, and there thrown 
out, with as little ceremony as though he had been 
a bundle of straw, into the highway; while his 
unmoved conqueror returned very coolly to the 
house, carefully bolting the door to prevent his 
re-entrance. 

Bitter tears, less from pain (for he was hurt 
somewhat by his fall) than mortification, flowed 
down his cheeks, but there was no alternative hut 
submission ; since explanation would be impossible, 
and remonstrance in vain. The only expedient 
that presented itself, was to remain in the neigh- 
borhood of this inhospitable dwelling ; w T here, him- 
self unseen, he might be able to get a sight of 
Eugene, whom he thought likely was employed in 
out-door work. “ He will surely return to the 
house at night-fall,” said he to himself ; but the 
day passed over, and darkness came on, without 
bringing the object he so greatly desired to see; 
and now, with spirits much abated, he was obliged 
to yield to the claims of hunger and weariness, 
and betake himself to the ale-house in the village 
we have before mentioned as being in the neigh- 


156 THE neighbors’ children. 

borhood. He bad no great difficulty in making 
the host understand what he wanted. He knew 
the names of bread and cheese in the Polish lan- 
guage, and showed them by signs that he wanted 
lodging. All was readily supplied; and having 
eaten heartily of the primitive fare they provided, 
he laid himself down on his hard pallet, and, worn 
out with excitement as well as the vigil of the pre- 
ceding night, his sad and boding thoughts were 
soon lost in the benevolent oblivion of sleep. 

The morning, however, awoke him to renewed 
care and anxiety. He resorted once more to the 
spot from whence, on the preceding day, he had 
watched the movements at the farm-house; but 
after the second day had passed, and he saw one 
after another of the peasants go forth to their 
field-work, and return in the same manner at meal 
time, and no one at all resembling Eugene among 
them, his hope failed him altogether, and he felt 
himself fairly in a dilemma. 

Poor Felix! what was he to do now? Dare he 
begin his journey homeward, and leave Eugene in 
servitude, maintaining himself by the way on the 
money which belonged to his friend, and which he 
still retained ? “ No ! I cannot do it, it would be 

wrong;” and so he resolved to wait a few days 
longer, in which he would seek him more carefully 
throughout the neighborhood ; for he could not go 


THE NEIGHBORS*' CHILDREN. 157 

until at least every avenue of hope as to finding 
him should be closed. 

Sadder than ever, he returned to the inn, where 
he found assembled a greater number of people 
than usual ; for it was the time of holding annual 
court in that district, and the magistrate of the 
village made one of the party on this evening. 

Most of the persons present were peasants, 
wearing upon their physiognomy those peculiar 
features which are supposed to be the impress of 
slavery, as marked by an extreme depression, or 
an apathy bordering on stolidity, such as our hero 
remarked in the household of farmer Woida, and 
which even the brandy, as it circulated freely, was 
not sufficiently potent to alter ; and so our poor 
Felix entered almost unobserved, and sat down in 
a quiet corner of the smoky room unquestioned 
save by one. 

That one was the village justice, who, being 
possessed of more intelligence, and a man of more 
observation than most of those among whom he 
lived, saw, notwithstanding the rude garb in which 
the boy was clothed, that he differed from the 
peasant herd whom he met with daily ; and wonder- 
ing what business had brought him to this ale-house, 
began to question him in Polish. Finding he 6ould 
not understand him, he next enquired his name, 
and what his business was, in German ; which 
language, although he spoke it badly, fell like 
14 


158 THE neighbors’ children. 

magic on our hero’s ears ; and seeming like sounds 
from home, at once awoke his boyish confidence. 

Believing he had met a friend in one who could 
understand the speech of his country, he told his 
interrogator all he desired to know, that he was 
seeking his friend, who was in the service of farmer 
Woida; that he had given the latter twenty gold 
pieces as compensation for his companion’s liberty, 
but that the money had been pocketed, without re- 
leasing the boy. 

The justice, whose name was Petrowsky, gazed 
on our young friend as he was speaking, and his 
glance was indicative of suspicion only ; he could 
not read the lines of candor and truth on that 
fair brow — alas ! he knew too much of human 
nature ; w T as too well versed in the tortuous ways 
of men, to give much credit to any tale ; knavery 
and double-dealing were so constantly brought 
before his notice, that he lived in constant distrust 
of all ; and believing that if one man was less 
overreaching than his fellow, it was for w r ant of 
opportunity or acumen. 

“ That was a large sum,” said he, after a pause, 
“ for a boy like you to have ; where did you get 
the money you say you gave the farmer?” 

“ Dietrich gave it to me; he had hired Eugene 
to farmer Woida, and this money was to buy him 
back,” was the answer of Felix. 

“ If Dietrich made the bargain, why did he not 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 159 

go himself, and release the hoj from servitude ? ” 
asked the magistrate. 

“ Alas ! he could not, he is dead,” said Felix ; 
“ he was unable to walk for some time, from a cut 
he had received on his foot, and then took a fever, 
of which he died. The morning after he gave 
me the money, I found him dead in his bed. 0, 
dear sir, Eugene is a nobleman’s son, and if you 
will only tell me how I may find him, as soon as 
we get home, you shall be well rewarded.” 

“So then you do not know,” replied the person 
addressed, “ that the young knave ran away from 
his master a week ago ? He could have been no 
great loss, methinks, since there was neither search 
nor inquiry made for him.” 

A thrill of horror passed over the heart of Felix 
at this intelligence. “Poor boy,” said he, sadly, 
“ what will become of him, a fugitive in a strange 
land ; and how can I hope to find him, ignorant 
as I am of the language. The best I can do is 
to go home as quickly as possible, and tell his 
parents what has happened. His father will find 
means to have him sought out and restored.” 

“ Stop, my boy ! not quite so fast, if you please,” 
rejoined the justice; “you say Dietrich died quite 
suddenly; and it sounds very strange that Dietrich 
should give a boy of your years such a sum. The 
old knave did not look like one disposed to be 
very liberal ; and as I saw him for the last few 


160 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

months, more likely to spend it in draughts of 
brandy, than give it away. No, no, I cannot 
believe the half of this.” 

The anxiety of Felix now arose to the highest 
pitch ; he foresaw the delay the magistrate’s sus- 
picion was likely to produce ; and he resolved to 
tell him candidly the whole history of what had 
befallen both Eugene and himself ; but this did 
not make things any better. Owing to his audi- 
tor’s imperfect knowledge of the German language, 
more than one half of what he said was not under- 
stood; and instead of lessening, only served to 
increase his already aroused suspicions ; for the 
circumstances seemed too improbable to be believed. 

“ The thing must be looked into,” said he ; 
“when I go to the capital I will speak to the 
justice Amtmann about it. In the meantime, you 
must remain here in this neighborhood ; and until 
the affair is settled, I will take you home with me, 
and find work for you on my farm. You may 
thank your stars you have found such a good 
place ; for if you had told the tale I have been lis- 
tening to to any other, it is most likely you would 
have been sent to prison ; as it is, I have my own 
suspicions that, although very young, your are a 
crafty knave ; and have either stolen the money 
from the old man, or helped him to his sudden 
death ! ” 

A sudden chill swept over the heart of the poor 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 161 

boy as he listened to this speech, and for a moment 
suspended the faculties of the living being. But 
the warm tide again flowed forth, and he was able 
once more to think. In the most earnest and 
touching manner he besought the man, who from 
his calling ought to be just, to let him return 
to his parents, who, he was certain, mourned him 
as dead; and protested his innocence with an 
earnestness that would have weakened, if not re- 
moved, the suspicion of any one who was not pre- 
determined to condemn. 

His prayers were addressed to a deaf ear. The 
justice demanded the rest of the gold ; and having 
buried it safely in his waistcoat-pocket, he set out 
for his home, taking our young hero with him. 

The boy followed his new and self-constituted 
master without uttering a word ; but an overwhelm- 
ing sense of isolation and strangeness took posses- 
sion of his whole soul ; and the feeling of desola- 
tion was by no means diminished on entering the 
long low chamber where the farm servants, of 
whom he was now to be considered one, were seated 
around a huge stove. They were not the only 
occupants of the filthy room ; a number of chick- 
ens, who were roosting on some crossbeams above 
the fireplace, gave audible tokens of their vicinity, 
as well as testified their displeasure at the interrup- 
tion caused by the entrance of strangers. A long 
table much cut and hacked, surrounded with cor- 
14 * 


162 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


responding benches, was the only furniture ; and 
as our poor Felix gazed upon the faces of those 
who were seated or stretched upon the latter, he 
felt that neither sympathy nor assistance w T as to 
be expected. A dogged sullenness was the pre- 
vailing expression, with which a slight shade of 
scorn mingled itself, as they half raised themselves 
to look at the new comer, who was introduced to 
their companionship as “ a knavish young German.” 

His courage was entirely subdued by this new 
misfortune ; so near the long-desired end of all 
his wishes — already on the first steps of the jour- 
ney which led to his home — and now all this hin- 
drance effected by the impatience of Eugene, with 
whom, but for his flight, he might have been many 
miles on his way. But complaints and reflections 
were alike useless ; he knew the want of patience 
to be his own besetting sin ; and as he had set him- 
self fairly at work to overcome it, he determined 
firmly to adhere to his purpose, although it was 
with a far less buoyant spirit than heretofore. 

His duties in this his new home were by no means 
light ; being the youngest, and not a native, much 
more labor was heaped upon him in consequence. 
He had to be up first in the morning, to do such work 
as the others did not like to do ; to help in the 
barn throughout the day, and in the evening to 
take the horses that had been used in ploughing to 
the meadows, and there remain himself for more 


TIIE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


163 


than half the night on the damp dull flats, from 
whose unhedged boundaries he was to prevent the 
fettered animals from straying. 

Greatly as he suffered, as the season advanced, 
under these increasing hardships, it was yet all as 
nothing in comparison with the pangs of disap- 
pointed hope. His heart grew sick as day after 
day passed over without tidings from Eugene, or 
prospect of deliverance from the wretchedness to 
which he was a prey. Sadly, and in silence, he 
crept about, scrupulously performing the tasks 
required of him ; but buoyancy no longer marked 
his step, neither did light kindle in his eye. Hun- 
ger and weariness he had learned to bear ; but the 
unnatural pressure on the youthful spirit was 
beginning painfully to tell. His food was of the 
coarsest kind, and so small in quantity, that it 
scarcely served to nourish the overtasked frame ; 
yet he was satisfied with it. The one all-absorbing 
subject of regret, and longing to be with his 
parents, swallowed up every* minor consideration, 
and made him altogether insensible of the failure 
of his health ; and having coupled some of the 
horses, and fettered others, he would leave them 
to graze on such herbage as they could find ; and, 
lying down on the ground, would bury his weeping 
face in the fading grass, and wish to die. 

The rude beings by whom he was surrounded, 
in whose hearts all sympathy had been crushed by 


164 THE neighbors’ children. 

the pressure of their own bondage, and taught to 
believe him a criminal of the worst kind, and only 
screened from justice by their master’s compassion, 
extended to him on account of his extreme youth, 
noticed not his faded and dejected appearance; but 
as though they considered it an imperative duty, 
they aggravated his already scarce bearable bur- 
den, by their rude and unfeeling behavior, and 
adding new hardships whenever they could. The 
principle from which such conduct was prompted, 
gave him more pain than the acts from which he 
suffered. It was his nature to be kind and friendly 
to all, and his education had taught him the true 
courtesy of being affable to every one ; and his 
loving spirit could scarcely brook the repulses he 
received from the stupid boors, whom he vainly 
tried to conciliate. But, as we have before re- 
marked, no life is altogether dark — no condition 
altogether joyless. The smile of woman has 
cheered the most dreary waste — the prattle of a 
child has poured out comfort to many a slave; and 
so it was in this case. One flower bloomed in this 
wilderness ; and like a fountain of sweet waters in 
the desert, of which the traveller drinks that he 
may not die, so was this slight treasure hailed as a 
sacred gift from heaven, inasmuch as it recalled 
the failing spirit from the verge of despair. 

As he turned away, one day, more disgusted 
than usual at the surly demeanor of those with 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 165 

•whom he was obliged to herd, his eye fell on a 
little girl of perhaps eight years old ; whom his 
master, as he stood giving directions, held by the 
hand. Her large blue eyes beamed forth smilingly 
from among her fair silken curls, and the sweet 
angelic expression of her face, involuntarily brought 
back the image of his dear little sister Pauline; 
and the imaginary likeness invested the little Polish 
maiden with an almost supernatural beauty, in his 
eyes, at the moment. 

Mareska, for that was her name, was his mas- 
ter’s youngest and most favorite child ; and as she 
stood beside her stern father, it was hard to ima- 
gine that such near relationship could exist between 
beings so different in appearance. She was allowed 
unlimited indulgence ; and so, taking advantage 
of her liberty of roaming where she pleased, in a 
few hours afterwards she was seen bounding over 
the meadow where Felix watched his grazing 
charge. These visits from the little wild bird, 
from this time, became more frequent, and were 
productive of happiness to both. To him, she 
came like a gleam of light from another world, 
and rekindled the almost extinguished spark of 
hope. Through her influence with her father, who 
never denied her anything, might he not obtain the 
liberty for which he pined ? But, independent of 
these selfish considerations, her presence was a real 
blessing ; and instead of weeping away the hours, 


166 THE neighboks’ children. 

as he used to do when sent to the meadows with 
the horses, he found pastime in making little wind- 
mills, boats, and other playthings, out of wood, for 
her, and was fully repaid for his trouble by her 
expressions of wonder and delight. Her winning 
ways, her kind and gentle disposition, and the 
gratitude with which she received these expressions 
of his friendly feeling towards her, rescued life 
from that deadness into which it had been chilled 
by the want of sympathy, and prevented utter 
stagnation. 

His master had at first amused him with pro- 
mises of inquiring after Eugene, and sending 
letters in his behalf to Steinrode ; but as, in the 
first place, he did not half believe his story ; and 
in the second, when he found how easily his de- 
mands were satisfied, and how diligent and faithful 
he was in the discharge of his duty, he resolved to 
keep him as his servant ; and therefore never 
wrote, as he had promised, to a friend he said he 
had in Silesia. 

In order to lighten the burden of his servitude, 
Felix had taken some pains to learn the language ; 
and he succeeded so far as to be able to converse 
tolerably well with the little Mareska, from whom 
alone he received any intelligence of what was 
going forward, since all but herself avoided him. 
Her visits and childish playfulness, by awakening 
his own young spirit from the despondent mood 


THE NEIGHBORS' CHILDREN. 167 

into which it had fallen, had rendered life more 
endurable, and he performed all that was required 
of him, steadily and without sullenness, in hopes 
that every day would bring the wished for intelli- 
gence from Silesia. But the sun that rose on his 
unfulfilled wishes, brought no fruition at its setting; 
disappointment succeeded to disappointment, and 
his master held him at too great a distance for 
him to dare to question. It was only to gratify 
his darling Mareska herself that she was permitted 
to hold converse with him. 

In her childish delight, she had shown her father 
the toys Felix made for her ; and as he sometimes 
had to pass whole days, which the others spent as 
holidays in the ale-house, or elsewhere, alone in 
the meadow, as he watched the horses, he worked 
the whole time at this employment; and so became 
quite proficient in this sort of rude sculpture. His 
avaricious master now began to calculate on a new 
branch of profit from his services, and so purchased 
a small collection of common paints, with which he 
one day surprised him; and as he at the same time 
released him from the performance of some of the 
most menial offices, this toy-making became a 
favorite pastime, rather than a labor. He pitied 
the boy, in his heart. His patient endurance of 
all that had been thrust upon him, awoke a softer 
feeling ; and although too selfish to think of giving 
up one whose services were, although unjustly ob- 


168 THE neighbors’ children. 

tained, so likely to be useful to himself, he relaxed 
much from his early severity, and conversed with 
him ; at times deigning even to comfort him when 
he inquired if an answer had come from his pa- 
rents. But at last, such questions awoke his impa- 
tience; and one day, as Felix ventured to interro- 
gate him on the unpleasant subject, he fell into a 
passion, and answered this time without hypocrisy. 

“You may as well give up inquiring, and be 
contented with your lot, which is no worse than 
that of thousands. You remain with me for the 
present, and I am sure you have nothing here to 
complain of. When you are grown up to be a 
man, and able to travel, I will let you go to your 
home ; but now, such a thing is not to be thought 
of, since it is not proved that you had no hand in 
Dietrich’s sudden death ; neither how you came by 
the money found in your possession — honestly, I 
cannot suppose ; since if you had, you would not 
have run off without telling any one your master 
was dead. You may thank your stars that I 
picked you up, for if I had not, you would at this 
moment have been sitting between four walls ; and 
no cock would ever crow to tell that the day had 
broke on which you were to set out for your 
home.” 

Half broken-hearted by this cruel speech, Felix 
turned away to the field where the bondsmen were 
reaping oats (for he had now been many months 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 169 

with his new master, and the ever changing seasons 
had brought seed-time and harvest in their turns), 
and took his place among them. His task was to 
bind up the cut grain into sheaves; and silent and 
weeping, he prepared to fulfil it. His distress was 
noticed by one of the men, who, until this time, 
had ever been foremost to insult and wound him ; 
and Felix had been particularly careful to avoid 
him, not only on this account, but such was the 
dark and villaHous expression of his face, that it 
made him an object most persons would seek to 
shun. 

When the noontide meal was brought out, and 
the reapers had retired to a shady spot to eat it, 
this man seeing our young friend refuse his portion, 
approached him ; and putting on an aspect of com- 
miseration, began to condole with him on the hard- 
ships of his lot, at the same time hinting that he 
could propose a plan by which he might easily 
escape from his present servitude, and reach his 
home. 

Felix, as we have said before, was by this time 
sufficiently versed in the Polish language to under- 
stand his meaning ; he raised his tear-swelled eyes 
to his comrade’s face, as if to see whether he was 
in earnest ; and his whole frame trembled from 
excess of joyful surprise. Looking the question 
he dared not venture to ask of one he had ever 
15 


170 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

approached with dread, he was met by the follow- 
ing proposal. 

44 Listen to me now, and be prudent,” said the 
boor ; — 44 when you are sent to the meadows to- 
night with the horses, do not stop there, but drive 
them quietly to the forest which lies at the furthest 
side. Myself and one other of our men will meet 
you there ; we will tie the horses in couples, so as 
to drive easily, and dash on to try our fortunes in 
the wide world. Help us only so far as this, and 
it shall be our care to see that you reach home 
safely, and no man shall touch a hair of your head.” 

44 Steal my master’s horses?” repeated the indig- 
nant boy, and the blush of shame and displeasure 
stole over his pale features as he spoke ; 44 never ! 
I am no thief. Rather will I die in my hard 
master’s service, herding his cattle in storms and 
darkness until my life shall end, than stand before 
my parents as a thief and traitor.” 

44 You are a fool,” said the boor, with a scornful 
laugh ; 44 you will only repay one great wrong with 
a less. The justice holds you in his service here 
against all right, because he finds you useful, and you 
cost him but little. If you were not such a block- 
head, you might be sure he had never written to 
enquire about your parents, since he is determined 
to keep you as his bondsman. Your money, 
whether you stole it, as he says you did, or not, 
has gone into his own pocket ; and you will never 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 171 

see your home again, that I promise you, unless 
you fall in with what I have proposed.” 

“ If the justice has done me wrong, and deceived 
me about sending to my parents,” answered Felix, 
“ God has many ways by which, in his own good 
time, he can deliver me from this misery. You 
place a great temptation before me ; but, believing 
as I do, you cannot entice me to do what I know 
to be wrong.” 

“Well,” exclaimed Lipinsky, bursting into a fit 
of passion, “ you will repent your refusal, sorely 
repent it. To your own hurt be it, since we can 
accomplish our purpose without you. But look 
you sharp, my young man — if you breathe one 
word, or give a hint of what has been spoken in 
this conversation, you and my knife shall make 
close acquaintance, as sure as my name is Lipinsky. 
So mark that, you Dutch blockhead!” 

This circumstance served greatly to increase our 
hero’s embarrassment, as well as to augment his 
happiness. Notwithstanding the threat uttered by 
Lipinsky, he believed it his duty to give his master 
a hint of what was intended ; and as the day ad- 
vanced, and no opportunity for doing so presented 
itself, his uneasiness grew greater as the moments 
flew by. With his thoughts thus painfully busy, 
he pursued his work, mechanically and in his usual 
silence ; but the very blood curdled at his heart, 
when on raising his eyes he encountered the dark. 


172 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


revengeful looks of Lipinsky, who never for a 
moment ceased to regard him. 

The time allotted for work drew to a close ; but 
no chance of communicating with his master had 
offered ; and sick at heart, with an aching head, 
and apprehending he scarce knew what, he saw 
the reapers prepare to leave the field. Lipinsky 
kept close beside him, and prevented a word from 
being spoken. He trembled as with a fit of ague as 
the unsuspecting owner of the horses came to him 
as he was busy with his charge in the stable, and 
bade him drive them to that part of the wide 
meadow which was in sight of the village, but most 
distant from the farm-house. This was the very 
spot desired by Lipinsky. 

“ What ails thee, boy ? ” enquired his master, 
as he noticed his great agitation ; “ have you been 
at the brandy sent out to the reapers ?” 

Felix turned to answer, but a threatening look 
from Lipinsky fettered his tongue. The poor 
youth trembled only the more as he answered, “ I 
think, sir, you must let me stay home this evening, 
for I am very sick.” 

“ Pshaw — nonsense,” rejoined the master, laugh- 
ing ; “ you are only a little drunk ; it will soon 
pass off ; or, I suppose, being a little lofty, you 
would prefer lying in a warm bed, to the clear 
heavens and cold earth. But there, take a couple 
of those horse-blankets with you, and you will 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 173 

sleep like a prince. Now be off at once, and do 
not make me impatient.” 

Felix was obliged to obey; and as he left the 
barn-yard with his horses, he heard Lipinsky’s 
scornful laugh, and understood its meaning. Words 
could not express his not only anxiety but perplex- 
ity. He justly feared that the base Lipinsky would 
fall upon him in the night, and rob him of his 
horses, and perhaps take his life; or if himself 
should boldly tell his master of the intended wrong 
in the miscreant’s presence, the latter, who pos- 
sessed his confidence, would deny the whole matter, 
and have him punished as an utterer of falsehood, 
desirous of supplanting him in the justice’s favor, 
by showing his own zeal in his service. 

The sun had not yet disappeared behind the dark 
boundary of the distant forests, and the air was 
calm and still. Felix, stretched upon the green 
sward, lay vainly meditating how he could acquaint 
his master with the plot, or save the horses him- 
self. He dare not drive them to another part of 
the meadows, since this spot had been particularly 
designated. The sound of approaching footsteps 
aroused him; he looked up, and saw the little 
laughing Mareska beside him. She was fairly out 
of breath with the speed in which she ran over 
the wide fields ; but her whole face sparkled with 
delight as she handed him a little white packet, 
15 * 


174 THE neighbors’ children. 

done up in white paper, which she carried in her 
hand. 

“I have brought you something,” said she, ad- 
dressing the boy; “something that will do you 
good, now that you are sick. See what a nice 
cake it is ! and you shall eat it, because you have 
always been so good to me, and made me such 
pretty toys. But do not look so sorrowful as you 
did this morning, when you talked to my father; I 
will be good to you, if he is not, for I do not like 
to see any one sad.” 

Felix patted her curly head ; and as he accepted 
her cake, which it would have pained her to have 
refused, his eye fell upon the white paper in which 
it was enveloped, and, quick as lightning, a thought 
flashed through his brain. He had a piece of red 
chalk in his pocket, that he used for marking the 
wood from which he cut the toys for Mareska ; and 
although the twilight was beginning to fall, he 
drew upon the paper, with hasty strokes, the scene 
in which he now was placed. 

It was at this time that the drawing he had 
practised to relieve the tedium of Dietrich’s cot- 
tage, came to his aid ; and as he sketched his rude 
draught, he acknowledged the mercy that rules 
over man, fitting him for his destiny, and preparing 
him to meet all life’s emergencies. 

The horses feeding quietly — himself sitting on 
the ground — Lipinsky (who was easily made recog- 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 175 

nisable by bis peculiar cap, and natural deformity 
of one arm shorter than the other), creeping up 
behind him with his naked knife — these objects 
formed the foreground. In the distance, bounded 
by the forest, were some two or three men, with 
ropes and halters in their hands. Badly drawn, 
and with such materials, it was yet striking enough 
to show, at the first glance, it was intended to 
designate something in reference to the horses. 
What that was, Felix trusted to the sagacity, or 
rather to the proverbial Polish cunning, to find 
out. He scarcely doubted but that, through the 
little Mareska, the picture w’ould find its way to 
the hands of her father ; the only fear was that he 
might be absent. If he could but have written a 
few words, it would have been more to the purpose ; 
but his master could not read German, neither 
could he have made the circumstance know T n in his 
own limited knowledge of the Polish letters. 

A short time having served to complete the rude 
picture, he gave it into the hands of the little 
Mareska, who clapped her hands for very joy, and 
ran off at full speed to show her treasure; not 
waiting to hear his injunction not to let any one 
see it but papinka. He knew that, when at home, 
the old man usually amused himself with his little 
daughter, in the evening twilight, and that she 
never v r as repulsed; whether clambering on his 
knee, or hanging round his neck, she was a favorite 


176 THE neighbors’ children. 

at all times, and in all places. The boy watched 
her receding form, as she bounded over the wide, 
level field, until the thickening twilight hid it from 
his view ; then, leaning against the trunk of a huge 
willow that grew at the border of the meadow, he 
looked anxiously in the direction of the village, to 
see if any uncommon movement was taking place 
there : but all was quiet ; no sounds were heard, 
save the whispering of the breeze, or the monoto- 
nous chirp of the cricket. Night sunk down upon 
the plain ; and, bathed in the cooling dews, reposed 
in solemn stillness. A few kindly stars twinkled 
in the sky ; but still, the darkness was so great 
that any one might have approached quite close 
without being seen. So calm and peaceful, so holy 
and pure was the whole scene, it seemed almost 
impious to suppose its enjoyment and quiet could 
be interrupted by fears or deeds of bloodshed ; and 
yet our hero could not divest himself of the appre- 
hension of lurking danger. Worn out with the 
labors of the day, he dared not yield to the drow- 
siness which oppressed him ; and although, at 
times, nearly conquered by sleep, he yet manfully 
resisted the desire, by using every expedient he 
could think of to keep himself awake. 

Midnight had come, and nought had disturbed 
its solemn hush. He began to think his fears had 
magnified the danger — that Lipinsky had only 
been tampering with his honesty, to see if he was 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 177 

indeed the deceiver he had been represented ; and 
he now began to consider whether he might not 
conscientiously yield to the burden of fatigue and 
drowsiness which lay upon him. His eyes closed ; 
his relaxed frame, and wearied mind, released from 
the forced action he had imposed on both, had in 
another moment settled into sleep ; but just then a 
rustling noise, unlike the whispering made by the 
breeze among the branches, aroused both, in an 
instant, to the full power of action. He listened 
— it was no deception, for it came nearer ; he 
looked — no light was visible from the village; 
nothing to show that any one was on the alert to 
apprehend danger, or prevent violence. He placed 
his fore-finger within his lips, and gave a shrill, 
piercing whistle ; hoping that, as the wind blew in 
the direction towards the village, it would be heard 
by some one there, and so awaken alarm, and 
bring help. 

The rustling grew more distinct ; and he had 
scarcely time to press himself close and closer, for 
concealment, behind the huge trunk of the willow, 
before two figures rose up, as if out of the earth, 
just beside him. A ditch ran on this side of the 
meadow, nearly to the village; and, creeping 
stealthily along its course, they had gained the 
spot almost noiselessly, and, had any one been on 
the watch, without being observed. They stopped 
for a moment, looking carefully around, as if for 


178 THE NEIGHBORS’ children. 

some one ; but the friendly trunk of the spreading 
willow, effectually concealed the watching boy from 
their notice. 

“ I thought so,” said a voice which Felix knew 
to be Lipinsky’s, although he could not distinguish 
his figure in the dim starlight. “ I thought that 
stupid Dutch fool would pull his head out of the 
noose, and give us leg bail. He has certainly run 
off and left old Petrowsky’s noble horses for us to 
do as we please with. Well, it is all the better.” 

As he spoke, he carefully approached the ani- 
mals, and rousing them with as little noise as 
possible, endeavored to drive them into the forest, 
which, as we have said, skirted the farthest side of 
the meadow. Felix strained his powers of vision 
until his eye-balls pained him, towards the village, 
in hopes of the expected help, but in vain ; none 
came. He was about to repeat his call of alarm, 
when suddenly one of the men uttered a loud cry 
of pain, accompanied with a volley of oaths. He 
had approached quite close to a noble black horse, 
the peculiar favorite of his owner, and was about 
to throw the halter over his head ; but the spirited 
animal resisted the effort, and rearing up, struck 
out with his fore-feet, and wounded him severely 
on the ancle. As he lay moaning on the earth, 
Lipinsky came up to see what was the matter. 

“Get up, you screeching fool,” he cried, after 
he had first vented his rage in a hearty fit of 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 179 

cursing; “what business had you to touch that 
horse? the wild devil won’t let anybody hut his 
master, and that Dutch thief, halter him. Get up, 
I tell you, and quit your whining, or else you will 
have the farm-people here before you know what 
you are about ; and so your head will be knocked 
off to keep company with your leg.” 

Lipinsky did not utter this speech without many 
interruptions, for the unmanageable horse gave 
him much to do to keep him at all in bounds, for 
although he held him by the halter, endeavoring at 
the same time to couple him with two others, all 
had become so frightened and unruly, that the 
effort to fasten them required more strength than 
the churl had at his disposal. 

Felix was aware of his embarrassment, made 
more plain by his continued and murmured impre- 
cations, than could be visible in the dim light; and 
taking advantage of the moment, he again gave 
that peculiar loud and shrill whistle, commonly 
used as a signal. This time, the sound reached the 
village, as at once he knew ; for the dogs were 
awakened, and began to bark loudly. Lipinsky 
now became furious, and desperate. 

“ Betrayed ! betrayed ! and by that accursed 
Dutchman,” he cried, aloud; and approached the 
tree beneath whose dark shadow Felix found pro- 
tection. Anxious, however, to retain possession 
of the horses, now that he had got it, he still 


180 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

endeavored to force them towards the wood, within 
whose shadow lay his only chance of safety, should 
the alarm have reached the village ; but the nearer 
he drew them to the willow behind which our hero 
stood, the more unmanageable they became, start- 
ing back and rearing, being frightened by the man 
who still lay moaning on the spot where he had at 
first fallen. 

Finding his hiding-place no longer safe, Felix 
now left it, and set off at the top of his speed 
towards the homestead; calling for help with all 
the strength of which he was master. 

“ I will stop your mouth, boy, if I can do no- 
thing else,” muttered the treacherous vassal ; as, 
with low curses spoken between his teeth, he let 
go the leather thong with which he was endea- 
voring to lead the unruly horse, that now, dashing 
wildly over the plain in full force o£ his recovered 
liberty, turned his ringing footsteps directly to the 
village. Lipinsky knew he would not stop until he 
had reached his master’s dwelling. Not a moment 
was to be lost — and he resolved effectually to 
silence the boy, whose evidence must betray him ; 
and ere Felix was many yards distant from the 
willow, his enemy was in full pursuit. Fleet of 
foot, and possessed of great strength, he soon 
gained rapidly on the young fugitive ; and at last 
reached within a few steps of him. Felix half 
turned his head, and as he saw the murderous knife 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 181 

gleaming in his upraised hand, he thought himself 
lost. His limbs trembled, but he sped onwards ; 
but in his haste and anxiety turning somewhat 
from the path, he stumbled over the protruding 
root of a tree, and fell headlong on the earth ; 
rolling, as he did so, into a slight declivity, or 
rather what was a partially filled-up ditch. 

This saved him. His pursuer, proceeding with 
a velocity which he could not in an instant control, 
bounded past him ; but almost instantly he turned, 
rejoicing that his proposed vengeance should be so 
easily accomplished on his young and fallen victim. 
He laughed aloud, and it sounded like the rejoicing 
of a demon, as he looked around for him ; for he 
could not see at once where he had so suddenly 
disappeared ; but this one moment decided our 
hero’s fate. Lipinsky saw, and, knife in hand, 
again approached him ; but ere he could stoop to 
drag the fallen boy forth, he found himself sud- 
denly seized and restrained by a pair of powerful 
arms. 

Felix still lay senseless on the earth, for he had 
received a slight contusion on his head, by which 
he was completely stunned ; but he at length was 
conscious that some one was raising him up, and 
rubbing his brow and hands. As he opened his 
eyes, a number of persons were standing around 
him with lighted lanterns, the glare of which fell 
upon the dark face of Lipinsky ; who now, bound 
16 


182 THE neighbors’ children. 

with cords, was carefully guarded by the strongest 
of the party. Three or four others were preparing 
to carry his wounded comrade to the village ; it 
having by this time been ascertained that his leg 
was broken. 

The plan of our young friend had succeeded. 
Mareska had hardly reached home, before she 
sought her father ; and climbing up on his knee, 
nearly wild with joy, was in haste to show him 
what she called her “ beautiful picture.” 

“ 0, father! only look here!” she cried; “did 
you ever see such pretty horses as these that Felix 
has drawn for me ? Just say now, does not this 
look like our wild Black Raven, that always kicks 
when you go near him ?” 

Petrowsky took the picture from the child’s 
hand, and laughingly, to tease her, began to criti- 
cise the manner in which it was executed ; averring 
that if she had not told him what figure was in- 
tended for Black Raven, he would have supposed 
it her mother’s black cat, that had been chased out 
of the pantry ; and the boy lying on the ground, 
was to show that Felix was lazy and sleepy. Ma- 
reska, who was very much displeased, had not to 
endure this ridicule of her favorite very long ; for 
he, remembering the boy’s singular behavior in the 
morning, as he now looked at the rude picture, 
began to think there might be more meaning in it 
than, at the first glance, he had supposed. 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 183 

He gave up his jesting, and examined it atten- 
tively. That something menaced the safety of the 
horses, he felt assured ; and as he looked, his cold 
grey eye blazed up with angry fire, and instead of 
giving back the drawing to the child, he thrust it 
into his pocket. Mareska looked at him in asto- 
nishment. She could not think how she had dis- 
pleased him ; for, to her, he was always indulgent. 
She began to cry ; but, contrary to his wont, to 
this he paid no attention. Without speaking a 
word, he put her down from his knee ; and giving 
a sign to his brother, who was on a visit there that 
evening, that he had business with him, they left 
the room together. 

A long conversation, which they held together 
in a distant chamber, was followed by the result 
we have described, and ended in the apprehension 
of the treacherous vassals, and the deliverance of 
Felix. The former were committed to prison ; and 
when Lipinsky found that nothing else would avail, 
he threw himself on the clemency of his master, 
and made a full confession. He stated that he had 
tried to persuade Felix to fly with him ; that he 
had promised to take him at once to his parents, 
if he would but lead the horses into the forest, 
from whence they could have succeeded in their 
plan, and with less danger than was promised by a 
nearer vicinity to the village. 

As Petrowsky listened, he rejoiced not only in 


184 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


the sagacity as manifested by the shrewd expedient 
of the hoy, but his heart was touched by the faith- 
fulness and integrity exhibited in his service. He 
felt ashamed that he had treated him so badly. 
His conscience now reproached him for having 
degraded one whom, if he was not a nobleman’s 
son, as he represented himself to be, was at least 
no born vassal to the low rank of a serf ; and he 
resolved now to do all in his power to have him 
restored to his home and parents. But as some 
little shadow of doubt still clouded the confidence 
he was beginning to have in Felix, he could not at 
once resolve to give him the money he had taken 
from him, and a safe-conduct into Silesia. No ; 
he would go the next day to Wilna, and ask 
counsel of a merchant with whom he was well 
acquainted, in that city, and whom, he knew, was 
in a business correspondence with the wool-dealers 
of Silesia. 

This person was to write at once, to know 
whether such a person as Baron Lindenburg lived at 
Steinrode, and whether he mourned an absent son ; 
and if our hero’s tale should prove true, tell him 
where to come and seek him. This was the reward 
— the best he could have — for his honorable con- 
duct in his master’s service ; and with what heart- 
felt sincerity he thanked his heavenly Father, who 
had so kindly changed the tide of sorrow, in the 
space of a few T days, to that, which was, in compa- 
rison, a full flood of joy ! 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


185 


CHAPTER VIII. 


“I am disgraced, impeached, and baffled here.” 

Hope once more lent her purple coloring to our 
hero’s prospects ; light tinged again his life’s 
horizon, so lately bounded by darkest clouds ; and 
in the childlike confidence in which he now looked 
forward for a speedy restoration to his home, almost 
forgot that he had sorrowed or suffered. His 
eyes again beamed forth its smiles of boyish glad- 
ness, his step resumed its vigor, and performed 
every duty required of his master in the very spirit 
of cheerfulness. “ Home and parents,” was the 
constant burden of his thoughts; he spoke often 
of his homeward journey — listened to the sound of 
every strange voice and rolling carriage, with a 
beating heart ; for he expected every moment to 
see his father, or some messenger with whom he 
was to travel, arrive. 

With every day his anxiety became greater, but 
one after another passed by, yet no tidings came. 
The justice at length declared his intention of 
going to the capital of the province, where he 
regularly went to attend the yearly market, and 
bade Felix be in readiness to go with him; for 
16 * 


186 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


much as he grieved to part with him, the impres- 
sion made by the boy’s honorable conduct had 
touched him too deeply for him to wish to hold 
him any longer in unjust bondage. 

Latterly he had exempted him from menial 
labor, treating him more as a son than a servant ; 
and now had fitted him out in a new suit of clothes, 
to which the little Mareska had added her own 
bright and many-colored handkerchief, and by the 
united effect of both, his appearance was greatly 
improved. 

It is true, no great taste was displayed in the 
color, texture, or fitting of the garments ; and 
Eugene might have laughed to see him dressed in 
the fashion of the better sort of farmers’ sons. 
Into that rude and remote province no Parisian 
modes ever had found their way ; and our hero 
was only too glad to exchange his peasant garb of 
untanned sheepskin for one whose less primitive 
material gave him more the appearance of a civil- 
ized being. 

He really looked the farm-boy well ; and his 
plain clothing could not hide the refinement of 
manner received in his early training, and which 
subsequent hardships had failed to obliterate. 

His kindling hopes were somewhat damped by 
the news he heard on his reaching the town. The 
merchant had written to his business friend in 
Silesia, who returned for answer that the posses- 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


187 


sor of Steinrode was no Baron Lindenburg, or any 
other German noble, but a rich old Englishman, 
who had neither wife nor children, and was at 
present absent on a journey to Paris and London, 
and the servants, who were all English, knew 
nothing of the family who had lived there before, 
their master having had possession for nearly four 
years. 

This, the writer added, was the simple truth ; 
there was, therefore, no doubt but that the magis- 
trate had been deceived by some artful boy, who 
wished to pass himself olf as the son of a noble- 
man, for reasons best known to himself, since he, 
the Silesian merchant, himself had been at Stein- 
rode only a few weeks before, as he was on a hasty 
tour through the country, the object of which was 
to purchase wool. 

It was true, as far as it went ; for the person, 
being taken up by the traffic by which he was to 
profit, made but few enquiries, and those of persons 
least likely to know, namely, English servants, 
who, not understanding the language, held no 
intercourse with the peasantry; and, with the 
characteristic exclusiveness of the nation to which 
they belonged, sought no companionship save 
among themselves. 

The blood mounted high to our young friend’s 
temples as he found himself looked upon as a 
deceiver ; but he soon forgot all uneasiness on his 


188 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


own account, in anxiety to know the fate of his 
beloved parents. What could have happened, that 
they had left Steinrode ? He could not think of 
Steinrode as owned by any other than his father. 
Where now was the poor boy to seek them ? He 
turned to his master, dreading to meet his cold 
eye, his distrustful glance ; but the man lately so 
stern, had been disarmed of all suspicion by the 
open straight-forward course steadily pursued by 
the boy. 

“ Cheer up, cheer up, my little man,” said he, 
kindly ; “ I have no more doubt of your integrity 
than I have of my own existence. You have 
sufficiently proved to me what you are, and I will 
do all in my power to find out where your family 
have removed.” 

Petrowsky’s friend, the merchant of Wilna, who 
stood by and heard what was said, now added a 
word or two of his own. 

“H is a heels-over-head sort of a body,” 

said he ; “I am going in the spring into Germany 
on business, and can take Silesia in my way ; and 
it will be as well to take this boy with me, as I 
must have some one. We can soon find out where 
his family have gone.” 

This decision pleased the justice quite well ; but 
to our poor Felix, whose hopes had been so highly 
raised, the delay seemed cruel. He thought to 
have been at home in a few weeks at the farthest ; 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 189 

but now, after an absence of more than four years, 
he must remain throughout a whole winter. Why 
could they not let him go to Steinrode himself? 
he would go on foot, “ yes, and willingly, too, only 
let him set out.” 

As his impatience arose to the highest pitch, he 
thought involuntarily of what his mother had often 
said, as she reproved him for this his greatest fault, 
“ Ah, Felix, my dear Felix, you will have to learn 
that patience in which you are so greatly wanting, 
in a harder school than the present.” Tears 
swelled in his eyes, although he checked their 
overflow, as the thought arose in his heart ; “ 0, 
my mother, your prediction has been accomplished 
by a sterner ordeal than any of which you could 
have dreamed.” 

“I have another plan,” said Petrowsky to the 
merchant, “ which I think you will approve. How 
would it be, if I would leave this boy with you 
here in the city ? I owe a great deal to him, which 
I would willingly repay ; and in the remote dis- 
trict where I live, I cannot do for him as I feel I 
ought. I am sure he is a gentleman’s son ; hard 
work is not what he ought to be set to ; he has 
been taught from books ; and it is a pity he should 
forget what he has learned. I wish that he should 
go to school. See, here is money to pay the ex- 
pense ; it belongs to himself, and I will willingly 


190 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

add more if you will help me to accomplish what I 
design for him.” 

“I will help you all I can,” answered his friend, 
“ since you tell me he is so good a boy ; I will keep 
him in my own house, and let him go to school 
with my son. If he was a wild, giddy-pated fellow, 
I would not do so ; for I have too much business to 
attend to, to be able to look after boys that play 
pranks, and for which a large city like this offers 
only too much opportunity. I like the boy’s looks, 
and think I shall not have any reason to regret 
having kept him in my house until we are ready to 
set out for Silesia.” 

“I am sure you will not,” rejoined the justice; 
“but, Felix, what will my little Mareska say, when 
she sees I have left you behind?” 

Felix answered only by a smile. Some regret 
he felt at the thought that most probably he should 
never again see that gentle little child, who had 
been his comfort and solace when he had no bright- 
ness in life, save what was bestowed by her true 
and artless affection. Yet he knew childhood has 
no lasting regrets, and she would soon forget him ; 
and for his own part, no consideration could have 
any weight put in competition with his extreme 
anxiety to be at home. Great was his joy now, 
since he must remain, to be able to go to school. 
How far, very far, must he be behind his brother 
Herman, in his studies ! 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 191 

He kissed the hand of his once stern master, 
who promised, if possible, to see him often through 
the winter ; sent many greetings to his little favor- 
ite Mareska, and looked after the retreating carriage 
of him who had changed from being his oppressor 
into his friend, with that indescribable feeling we 
have when we believe we have parted forever with 
one to whom we have long been accustomed, until 
it was out of sight. 

He was now happier than he had been since the 
day Dietrich forced him from Steinrode; for he 
now enjoyed, in a family of some refinement, the 
comforts that belong to more civilized life than that 
he found in the rude and distant province which 
had so long been his home. Those to whom the word 
neatness is without meaning, as was the case in the 
hovel of Dietrich, or the better dwelling of the 
justice, can have no idea of the discomfort the 
want of it produces to those whose refined habits 
make it almost as necessary as the air we breathe. 

His well-washed clothes (and clean clothes are a 
luxury), his good bed, and neatly swept chamber, 
turning back the tide of habit to what it had been 
at Steinrode, awoke a spirit of thankfulness ; and 
cheerfulness once more laughed out from his eyes, 
and the bright glow of health mantled his cheek — 
he looked the Felix of other days. 

Henry, the merchant’s son, was an amiable boy, 
near his own age ; and he found much more pleasure 


192 THE NEIGHBORS’ children. 

in his companionship than he had ever done in that 
of Eugene. As he was most anxious to make up 
for lost time, he was so diligent at his studies, that 
his example served as a spur to Henry, who was 
a little indolent ; a circumstance which caused the 
good merchant to rejoice that he had received him 
into his household. 

As the winter passed over, and the spring-time 
drew near, he was selfish enough to wish to retain 
him ; but he felt that it would be cruel to detain 
him by any pretext whatever ; for that his soul 
was filled with longings to be with his loved-ones, 
was evident from the emotion he ever exhibited 
when speaking of them. 

At length the snows melted away, and the sun, 
no longer veiled by wintry clouds, shone forth with 
benevolent warmth, and invited the approach of 
spring. Felix imagined how beautiful the moun- 
tains of Silesia — the fields, the park, the gardens 
of Steinrode would look by the time he should 
have reached them ; and as preparations now were 
really making for their departure, he could scarcely 
control his impatience, or wait with moderate 
transport the arrival of the day on which they were 
to set out. At length even that was named, and 
but one solitary cloud hung over the brightness of 
the spirit with which he anticipated its coming — 
one brooding thought that disturbed the peaceful 
flow of his present joy. Had he been absorbed in 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 193 

self, the fate of Eugene would have given him no 
uneasiness ; but he was now so happy himself, that 
he could not bear to think of poor Eugene remain- 
ing behind. Where was the unhappy boy wander- 
ing, a fugitive in a strange land, enduring all the 
ills of poverty and misery ? no doubt, if living, a 
slave to some cruel master, as himself had been. 

He was standing near the door of the counting 
room one day, buried in such meditations, when 
Mr. Berndt came out, with a letter in his hand. 
The boy whose business it was to carry letters to 
the post-office was nowhere to be seen ; and the 
merchant with manifest impatience began to call 
him loudly ; but the lad did not appear in answer 
to his summons. 

“This is too bad,” said he; “here is a letter 
containing money to be sent, and that fellow out 
of the way; time presses — here, Felix, there is 
nothing left for it but that you must run quickly 
to the office and put this letter in the mail before 
it closes.” 

Our hero was glad to have an opportunity of 
obliging ; and setting off at a round pace, he soon 
traversed the intervening squares, and was fairly 
out of breath when he arrived at the place ; but 
he found the window so completely crowded by 
persons'who had come before, and were impatient 
to be served, that he could not force his way to the 
IT 


194 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


box in which it was the custom' to deposit the 
letters or parcels to be dispatched. 

Fearing for the safety of his important missive 
in such a crowd, he cautiously concealed it in the 
inner pocket of his vest ; and crossing his arms 
over his bosom, as though to insure its security, he 
stood on the pavement near the door, enjoying the 
bright sunbeams that poured their invigorating 
warmth on all around, and woke a pure tide of life 
in all. 

As he stood looking at the dial-plate of the old 
clock on the tower of the Bath-house, whose hands 
showed that the time for closing the mail was not 
near elapsed, he observed a slender, well-dressed boy, 
apparently belonging to the upper class, come from 
a cross-street, and as he slowly walked along to- 
wards the tower, draw a small gold watch from his 
pocket, on which he would often stop to gaze with 
great seeming satisfaction. 

A few coarsely clothed, dirty faced children, 
who were noiselessly playing in his way, gave up 
their sport at his angry bidding, and stood looking 
at the beautiful bauble he held in his hand with 
looks of mingled curiosity and envy. This seemed 
to flatter the silly boy’s vanity, and he resolved to 
enjoy the implied preeminence it gave him to the 
utmost. What was it that they were children, and 
of the rabble ? it was a sort of homage implied to 
himself, and that is a tribute none ever refuse. 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 195 

It was easy to see how inflated he was with his 
fancied importance, as, still surveying his watch, 
he came up quite close to the tower, and remained 
standing at the corner of the principal street, from 
which many others diverge, and lead down into 
narrow, dark, and intricate courts, inhabited only 
by the outcasts of society, or into dens where vice 
finds a secure hiding-place; there, looking up at 
the dial-plate, he began to set his watch to the 
right time. 

At this moment a boy, something larger than 
himself, and most miserably clothed, darted like 
lightning from the point we have mentioned to- 
wards him, tore the watch from his hand, and 
vanished as suddenly as he had appeared down one 
of those gloomy alleys, disappearing as effectually 
as if the earth had opened to afford him a hiding- 
place. 

A thrill of horror passed through the frame of 
Felix, and a cry of painful surprise broke from his 
lips. Without waiting one moment to reflect on 
the important charge confided to his care, but 
yielding to his natural impatient and impulsive 
spirit, he dashed after the young thief ; and tremb- 
ling with excitement and terror, stopped not until 
he reached a cluster of dilapidated houses, in a 
court whence all further procedure was forbidden. 
There he stood before the unwashed doors, without 
being able to discover which the boy had entered, 


196 THE neighbors’ children. 

if, indeed, he had entered any : so quick was his 
movement, it was impossible to tell. The cry of 
“stop thief,” had brought the multitude to the 
spot; but, after following a little way, they had 
turned off in another direction ; and the gradually 
decreasing tumult gave evidence that they were 
either entirely off the track, or else had lost 
interest in the pursuit. 

Felix stood, as we have said, irresolute ; he was 
certain he had seen the boy turn down this street, 
but where had he vanished? the houses seemed for 
the most part to be uninhabited, and although 
himself had followed closely on the young culprit’s 
heels, he had seen no door open to receive him. 
He was about to turn back, and had already moved 
a few steps backward, when a slight creaking, as 
though some one was cautiously opening a door, 
caused him once more to look round. He was 
himself rather hidden in the shadow of one of the 
houses, but he saw a head gradually protruding 
itself from the one next him, stretching forth as 
if anxiously peering about to discover if the men- 
aced danger was past. Quick as thought, Felix 
rushed to the opening door; and as he forced 
himself through the small crevice, for the boy 
within contested his entrance by pushing against it 
with all his might, and pressing his hands within 
both his own, exclaimed, in a voice hoarse and 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 197 

broken with emotion, “ Eugene, have I found you, 
and in such a place !” 

“ Felix!” said the other, half frightened, half 
joyful ; “ Oh ! but I am glad you have come ! we 
can keep together now, for I am sure you will not 
leave me. 0, what hard, hard times I have had ! 
But come, let us go up to my room in the attic. 
Happily, old Simon is not at home just now, so I 
can tell you all that has happened ; but I dare not 
be seen in the street, at present.” 

It now, for the first time, occurred to our friend 
Felix in what manner Eugene had made himself 
master of the boy’s watch. Forgetful of his 
errand, forgetful of his own nearly accomplished 
hopes, he let the absorbing interest he felt in the 
unhappy boy’s fate, stand in the way of his duty, 
and he inquired, anxiously — 

“ But Eugene, why did you take the boy’s watch 
from him ? do you know him, and was it only to 
plague him ? If so, it was wrong. It is wrong to 
cause any one needless anxiety; and now come, 
let us go to him; you surely did not mean any 
thing but a joke, and will certainly give it back.” 

Eugene looked down at the black and rag-strewn 
floor, and a deep blush overspread his features. 
“I will tell you all, Felix,” he said, after an em- 
barrassing silence. “ I will tell you all the truth, 
bad as it is ; perhaps you can help me to escape 
from this vile old Jew, into whose power I have 
17 * 


198 THE neighbors’ children. 

fallen. Oh ! I thought Dietrich hard, but he was 
kindness itself, in comparison with this cruel man. 
But come up to my garret ; no one will hear us 
there.” 

Felix followed him in silence, his astonishment 
being too great for words. Having reached the 
miserable spot, a more filthy than which could not 
be imagined, which Eugene called his chamber, he 
commenced his story. 

“ On the day when Dietrich took me to the far- 
mer, I felt that I would rather die than live in his 
service ; but then, Felix, you know we cannot die 
just when we want to. But what a home that was, 
with scarce enough to eat, and such rough, hard 
work ! I complained no little ; but what good did 
that do, since no one heard me, or if they did, no 
one minded me ? for they did not understand my 
language, and had no sympathy for me. Dietrich 
always gave us plenty to eat ; but I was not going 
to work for this surly boor, and so I told him ; but 
I found when I did not work I got nothing to eat, 
so at length I had to yield, and set to in good 
earnest. He was building a new stable for his 
cows, and I had to carry all the stone and lime. 
Think of that, Felix; I, a gentleman’s son, to wait 
thus upon a rude peasant’s bidding ! At night, I 
had to watch the horses in the fields, to keep them 
from straying ; and I wonder I did not get my 
death, by lying on the damp grass.” 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 199 

“ I had as hard work as that,” said Felix. 

“But the worst of all was,” continued Eugene, 
“ the farmer’s son was the wildest, worst boy that 
ever lived ; and who, when I complained, or cried, 
always mocked me. My hands swelled, and be- 
came stiff, from the unaccustomed usage they got; 
they pained me, and often bled ; and yet this cruel 
young man beat me one day unmercifully, because 
I let a heavy dish fall, as it burnt me. Oh ! but 
I was glad it broke, and spilled that horrid beer- 
soup ! I had to bear his tyranny patiently, for if 
I endeavored in the least to defend myself, he 
complained to his father; and as he could not 
understand my excuses, I then got two whippings 
instead of one. I now wished for nothing so much 
as an opportunity to play this fellow a sly trick, 
just to provoke him.” 

“You were wrong there, Eugene,” interrupted 
Felix; “it is commanded that we ‘stir not up 
anger.’ ” Eugene took no notice of the reproof, 
but went on. 

“ Yusuff, for that was the name of my tormen- 
tor, had a pigeon-house ; and it was his greatest 
pleasure every morning to visit and feed his 
pigeons. Oh! but I would have been glad to 
upset the ladder as he mounted, could I have done 
so without being seen ! I had seen a marten 
several times, in the evening, prowling about the 
pigeon-roost, and remarked how carefully Yusuff 


200 THE neighbors’ children. 

had fastened the latticed door; for he had seen the 
murderous fellow, as well as myself. One night, I 
crept from the hay-loft where I slept, and opened 
the door which he had taken such pains to secure ; 
and rejoiced to think what an outcry he would 
make in the morning, when he saw the destruction 
of his favorites. But as I was coming down the 
ladder, after accomplishing my purpose, old Bern, 
the watch-dog, began to bark, which awakened my 
master; who got up, and saw what I was about 
from the window.” 

“ How could you do so ?” asked Felix ; “ it 
surely did not serve to make your lot any better.” 

“No, that it did not, but a great deal worse; 
for the next morning, on seeing the havoc made 
among the pigeons, suspicion fell upon me at once ; 
and after giving me an unmerciful beating, my 
master put me into a sort of dark cell, used for 
storing potatoes, and other vegetables, in winter. 
A pitcher of water, and some coarse, black bread, 
just enough to keep me from starving, was given 
me ; and here I had to pass four dreary days in 
perfect darkness. Yusuff used to look in at me, 
sometimes, asking me how I liked my new lodg- 
ings, and always mocking or pelting me with dirt ; 
while he stood devouring some dainty morsel before 
my eyes, only to make my mouth water, and my 
wretched fare seem more distasteful. I knew that 
when I should be released from this prison, my lot 


THE NEIGHBORS* CHILDREN. 201 

would be harder than ever ; and so I resolved to 
flee at the first opportunity. The day of my deli- 
verance came at last. I saved my bread as much 
as possible, and filled my pockets with potatoes, 
which I buried under the hay, after I was per- 
mitted to leave my cell ; I waited hour after hour 
for the wished-for chance to wander I cared not 
where, so that I was but free. On the evening of 
the second day, I was ordered to take the horses 
to the meadow, and remain there with them. My 
heart trembled with joy as I hid the stores I had 
saved, in my pockets, and in the breast of my 
jacket. Could it be possible, I thought, that 
freedom was so near ? Yusuff followed me some 
distance, and amused himself by setting his dog 
upon me ; it was an ugly, ill-natured brute, by no 
means friendly with me ; and seizing me by my 
leg, bit me so severely that I screamed with pain. 
Yusuff laughed as if ready to kill himself: while 
his dog held fast to me, not letting go his hold until 
his master called him off. Ah! Felix; I now know 
how cruel it is to worry the defenceless! If I live 
to get back to my parents, I will never do it 
again.” 

“ I am glad to hear you say so. But how did 
you get off at last?” asked his friend; who, ab- 
sorbed in Eugene’s narrative, forgot how time was 
passing, and that the letter entrusted to his care 
had not been mailed. 


202 THE neighbors’ children. 

“ I had no sooner reached the border of the 
wood, than I left the horses to themselves ; and, 
plunging deep into the forest, I ran I scarce knew 
where. The hope of obtaining my freedom, as 
well as the dread of being overtaken, gave me new 
strength ; and carefully avoiding villages, of which 
I saw several, I kept, during the greater part of 
the night, on the skirts of the forest. Towards 
morning, I came to a half-extinguished fire, kin- 
dled, probably, by soldiers, or some wandering 
gipsies, the night before ; for straw and half-picked 
bones, lying about, showed that the party had not 
long left the place. I scraped the embers toge- 
ther, and heaping some dry rubbish upon them, I 
roasted my potatoes, and so had food to last me all 
the next day. Oh ! how I dreaded being taken ! 
On the third day, when I began to feel pretty 
secure, my provisions gave out, and I was forced 
to beg. It was indeed but little I received, and I 
scarcely know how I got to the neighborhood of 
thi» city, which I was not able to reach, being 
entirely exhausted. I threw myself down, in 
despair, under an oak by the highway ; I wanted 
to die, for I did not care much what became of me. 
The setting sun, however, warned me that it was 
time to seek a better place to pass the night in, 
than on the road-side. I had not yet risen to pro- 
ceed, when I heard the rattling of wheels. I 
looked up, and saw the queerest old carriage, 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 203 

Felix ! It stopped; and a still queerer old Jew (1 
knew him for one by his beard) got out, and came 
quite to the spot where I was lying. He asked me 
some questions in Polish ; but as I never would try 
to learn that horrid language, I could not under- 
stand one word. I only shook my head, but I 
suppose he knew what that meant; for he then 
enquired, in bad German, ‘whose boy I was, and 
where I came from ?’ ” 

Our young readers, perhaps, will wonder that so 
good a lad as we have represented Felix to be, 
should so far have forgotten himself, and his obli- 
gations to the friendly merchant, as to have neg- 
lected the delivery of the important letter. The 
hour at which the mail was to close had long since 
passed, and the packet still remained, unthought 
of, in his bosom. Strange that he who had so 
lately recalled, and repented of his fault, should 
so soon have forgotten the necessity of constant 
watchfulness ; but such is human nature. Virtue 
thrives best under the pressure of adversity ; and 
it is often sadly the case, that the moment that 
pressure is removed, its salutary effects vanish with 
it. The recollection of all that he had suffered on 
account of not attending to the admonition of his 
parents, was lost in his impatience to hear the rest 
of Eugene’s adventures. The cure was properly 
begun, but alas ! not perfected ; and he now begged 
him to proceed. 


204 THE neighbors’ children. 

44 Although the appearance of this man was 
every way repulsive, his matted red hair, and the 
knavish twinkle of his eyes, filled me with dread ; 
hut oh! when he began to speak German, Felix, 
was not I glad ? Don’t you remember how I once 
despised it, and now' — oh ! how sweetly it sounded ! 
I could not help telling him everything — I was 
so glad to have some one to talk to. I told him 
who my parents were, and how I had been carried 
off from my home ; nor did I conceal where I had 
lived last, neither the trick I had played on Yusuff, 
nor our subsequent quarrel. A malicious smile 
distorted his ugly features, making them yet more 
hideous ; and helping me to arise, he- said, with 
disgusting familiarity — 

44 4 My dear young gentleman, make yourself 
easy ; I will take you to your parents. Get up, 
now, into my waggon ; I have provisions there — 
good bread and meat — and you may eat your fill, 
for you are weak from long fasting.’ 

44 1 did as he bade me ; and diving down among 
some straw which lay in the bottom, he brought 
forth a basket containing eatables. They were 
good ; and as I devoured them with an appetite 
made ravenous by long-continued hunger, the old 
waggon moved on, and when it was quite dark, we 
came hither. Next morning, all was changed. I 
had a miserable breakfast, and the horrid old Jew 
addressed me as his servant ; he also told me that 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


205 


he was a dealer in old clothes, and from this time 
forth it must be my business to brush them up, as 
well as to scour all the rusty brass and copper, of 
which there was a goodly collection, so as to make 
it sell. In short, I, a nobleman’s son, was to do 
all this dirty work ; and when I told him I would 

not Felix, I wish you could have seen him! 

Dietrich’s worst mood was mildness in comparison. 
If my breakfast was bad, the dinner was no better 
— mouldy bread, and raw onions; think of onions 
— vulgar things, that I never could bear. I tried 
to remind him of his promise to send me back to 
my parents — that they would reward him richly 
if he did so; but he only laughed mockingly, as 
he said — 

“‘You do not think that I believe that tale, 
surely. You look like a nobleman’s son, in your 
sheep-skin jacket ! If you are, you have no doubt 
played them some trick, as you did at the farmer’s 
where you lived last ; so that most likely they are 
glad to be rid of you. When you found me, you 
found your master ; and if you do not obey me, I 
will take you back to farmer Woida, where the 
right sort of reward will await you, for leaving the 
horses in the wood, from whence they strayed off, 
or were stolen; at any rate, the farmer has lost 
them, as I heard when I passed through the dis- 
trict. You are now in my power, and shall not 
escape, tricky as you are. I will keep you confined 
18 


206 THE neighbors’ children. 

as I would an animal, until you have become per- 
fectly tame ; then you shall carry the pack for me 
as I go through the country trading; for I am 
getting old and weak, and need a stout, cunning 
lad, like yourself, to help me.’ 

44 You may imagine my dismay, as well as my 
rage, when I listened to these words, which showed 
me how firmly I was in the power of this hateful 
man. Oh ! how I abhorred him ! how I spurned 
the abominable food he would have forced me to 
eat ! hut at last, hunger obliged me to yield. 

44 £ I will readily give you better,’ said he* one 
day, as he laughed at the faces I made in token 
of my disgust, ‘when you shall have learned how 
to earn it. But you must he shown how, as well 
as to get yourself some good clothes. Let me hear 
what your nobleman’s education has taught you.’ 

“With great reluctance, I told him what my 
course of instruction had been, but that lately I 
had been learning nothing but hard work ; but he 
shook his head, and mocked at all I named. 

44 4 Such knowledge as that is too slim — it is not 
enough to coax a dog away from the fire,’ said he, 
contemptuously; 4 if you could cipher up figures 
quickly, and write a good hand, you could soon 
make something.’ 

44 1 promised him I would make the attempt ; in 
short, I said I would do whatever he wished, rather 
than wear such horrid clothes as those I now wore, 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 207 

and live on those offensive onions. Simon, for that 
was the old Jew’s name, now brought me a whole 
pile of account-hooks, which he said I must copy 
to look like the originals. He waked me at sun- 
rise, and kept me writing, or furbishing up old 
clothes, all day ; but for the most part writing or 
working at figures, so that my fingers were fairly 
benumbed, by evening. But with all my endea- 
vors, I could not please him ; he found fault with 
my writing and calculations, caring little for the 
pain and trouble it cost me, saying it would have 
to be a great deal better done before I could hope 
to make much from it. But after this, I did not 
stick to it — it was entirely too much trouble ; and 
I begged Simon only to give me some employment 
in the open air, for the confinement in this dull, 
filthy room, was utterly unbearable ; and besides, 
I was really growing sick from breathing the pes- 
tilent odor issuing from the heaps of old clothes 
which were piled up, and surrounded me like a 
wall, so that not a breath of pure air ever reached 
me, as I sat at work. 

“ ‘I will do well by you,’ answered Simon to my 
request; ‘but you must also do something for 
yourself ; and if you are spry and industrious, you 
can soon save up a sum to enable you to go home 
to your parents ; that is, if you are not telling a 
lie about them. You must, however, help me in 
the getting off of these old clothes ; for I am a 


208 THE neighbors’ children. 

poor man, and cannot afford to feed you for 
nothing. But if you won’t, it is all one to me 
whether you ever get home or not.’ 4 Only tell 
me,’ interrupted I, ‘how I shall earn money enough 
to take me from here — I care not by what means I 
get it, only so that I have enough to carry me to 
my country and home.’ Simon answered me — 
a-a-you see, Felix, a-a-I was so very hungry — and 
I wanted to see my parents so badly — you are so 
queer, Felix, I do not like to tell you — but I must. 
In short, Simon said that there were a great many 
rich people here in this city, who had more money 
than they knew what to do with ; and they could 
very well afford to spare some of it to those who 
were poorer. But the country was a better place 
to begin such work — he would take me to the 
country — people there left their doors open, par- 
ticularly kitchen doors, where he had often seen 
silver spoons and other such things lying about — • 
there was nothing needed but to be sly and quick, 
all that I acquired in this way should be my own 
— he would save of sell it for me until I had a sum 
large enough to bear the expenses of a journey 
into Germany.” 

44 Did he mean to teach you to steal ? ” inter- 
rupted Felix, starting up in horror, as Eugene, 
flushing with shame, stopped to recover his breath. 

“ Ah, yes ; and you have only too well profited by 
the lessons, as I myself witnessed scarce an hour 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 209 

ago. How could you listen to, or follow such in- 
iquitous counsels? how could you think God would 
favor the end to be obtained by such sinful means ? 
My poor, poor Eugene, into what miserable cir- 
cumstances have you fallen !” 

“ After a time, according to his promise, Simon 
gave me better clothes, and occasionally warm 
food,” continued Eugene, his voice choked with 
sobs, and entirely cast down by the speech of 
Felix; “ but he insinuated that I should have still 
more if I brought him something worth while. 
Pewter spoons, keys, and such things as I picked 
up — for, Felix, I could not bring myself to steal 
silver, although I tried.” 

“ The principle was as bad in the taking of the 
one as the other,” said Felix. 

Eugene, not heeding the interruption, went on : 
“ Simon said these things were not worth the 
trouble of putting away; ‘You will have to stay a 
long time with me, if you do not make some better 
hauls than this,’ was his mocking reproach, as I 
brought him a handkerchief I had taken. As I, 
looked from the window I saw that silly boy 
parading his watch ; Simon had gone out, and 
forgot to lock me up as usual. ‘Ah,’ thought I, 

‘ this watch shall be the means of helping me out 
of this horrible place,’ and so I — Felix you know 
the rest.” 

“Alas! yes,” answered Felix; and as he took 

18 * 


210 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

the hand of Eugene, added in a tone of entreaty, 
“ but you will not keep the watch — you dare not ; 
neither must you remain longer with this bad man 
who glories in teaching you to sin. Come with me 
— the good merchant in whose house I have found 
a home, will take you too. I will tell him who you 
are ; and only think — in eight days we will both 
be in Silesia. I am too happy — and now come 
quickly — I have a letter here, containing money, 
which I must put in the post-office, and then we 
will both go to Mr. Berndt.” 

As he spoke he drew Eugene to the door of the 
small garret-room in which they had been speaking, 
admitting light only from a four-paned window, 
and filled with piles of old clothes and worm-eaten 
furniture ; let the day be ever so bright without, 
there always, as Eugene had said, existed here a 
twilight gloom, as though the dark spirits that 
within its unhallowed walls had dreamed over plans 
of wickedness, had left a shadow on the spot, which 
even the sunlight could not illumine. It was a 
long and narrow chamber; and objects at the 
further end were entirely involved in misty obscurity 
— the fugitive from justice — the concealed assassin 
— might there be shrouded without suspicion, even 
in the presence of its occupants ; and it now con- 
tained a listener, of whose vicinity the boys had 
no idea. 

They had nearly reached the door of the dwell- 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 211 

ing, when Eugene suddenly uttered a loud scream, 
for at that moment Simon stood beside him, and 
laid his heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder. 

“ So, so,” he croaked forth in a hoarse voice, “ I 
have spoiled a nice plot. A conspiracy, it seems ; 
you were going to run away from me. Well, you 
shall go, but it will be to prison ; that is the only 
place to hold young thieves. And as for you, my 
young preacher of morality,” he continued, turn- 
ing to Felix, “ you must stay with me in his place 
— you will have a fine opportunity of proving the 
strength of the foundation you have laid for your 
charming edifice. But in the first place, I feel it 
my duty to take care of your property whilst under 
my roof ; and so I will at once relieve the possessor 
of his watch, and you, my young hero, of your 
letter, which you say contains money.” 

He was a tall, thin, but muscular man, and as 
he spoke he seized hold on Felix, and notwith- 
standing he made stout resistance, he soon succeeded 
in ridding him of his packet; and dragging him 
back to the gloomy room which they had just left, 
and where Eugene followed, he flung him into a 
corner ; and having locked the door, went laugh- 
ing down stairs, his heavy tread on the stone steps 
ringing the knell of those hopes that one moment 
before had existed so brightly in the hearts of 
those he left behind. 

There they stood gazing upon each other — those 


212 THE neighbors’ children. 

unhappy boys, more wretched than ever, shut out 
from all human assistance, and without any chance 
of escape from that dark, forlorn, and noisome 
room, over whose portal it might have been written, 
“ Hope comes not here !” 

As the day passed over, and Felix did not return, 
the evening came, and brought no tidings of the 
missing boy, anxiety was awakened in the house- 
hold of the good merchant, which was afterwards 
changed into suspicion. The boy had very will- 
ingly consented to carry the letter which he knew 
contained money, to the post-office ; he had been 
seen near the door by a person who knew him ; 
and it was equally certain he had not delivered the 
packet, since he had no opportunity. 

The old distrust of Felix being a deceiver began 
once more to take possession of the merchant’s 
mind — it was so easy to believe, that, now so near 
the contemplated journey into Silesia, where his 
imposture was sure to be made known, he had 
deliberately taken himself off, now that he had a 
large sum of money in his possession. 

But all search (and nothing was left undone,) 
proved fruitless. Felix had been seen running 
down the suspicious street with every mark of un- 
common anxiety ; but where he found, or was likely 
to find admittance, no one could even conjecture. 

Vexed to be disappointed, and mortified at being 
so successfully deceived by one whom he had 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 213 

begun to love so well, Mr. Berndt set out by him- 
self on his journey into Silesia, and gave up all 
intention of enquiring after the Lindenburg family, 
firmly believing that none such existed ; and, 
besides, he hated to speak the name, inasmuch as 
it served only to remind him how he had been out- 
witted. 

The police, however, indefatigably endeavored 
to trace out our young friend — advertisements 
appeared in the papers — notices were pasted upon 
the corners of the streets, describing his person, 
and denouncing him as having committed a rob- 
bery — all of which he happily remained ignorant. 
It was a knowledge which would have added 
greatly to the pains of his imprisonment — bad 
enough to be shut up in such a place as he was, 
and in the power of such a man as Simon, the 
Jew, without this. 

Under these circumstances, this roguish per- 
sonage concluded it his best plan to absent himself 
for a time from the city, himself having been fre- 
quently an object of suspicion to the police ; but 
although his tumble-down looking dwelling had so 
often been watched as the place where many a deed 
of darkness was perpetrated, this wily sharper 
conducted his movements so cautiously, that he 
never could be detected. With his small, twinkling 
eyes, blinking incessantly to the right or left, he 
went in and out of his narrow street with the 


214 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


stealthy pace of a cat. No one heard his footsteps 
until he was close beside them ; and many averred 
that his tall, but crouching form cast no shadow. 
When danger came so close as to be dreaded, his 
occupation as a pedlar gave him an excuse for 
leaving the city, which he did; driving on his 
successful trade in some remote province, where he 
was not known. 

When he opened the letter which he had taken 
from Felix, he found the enclosed sum very con- 
siderable ; and concluding from this, as well as the 
reward offered for his apprehension, that the search 
was not likely soon to be relaxed, he resolved to be 
on the safe side, and not only retain the merchant’s 
money, but receive a ransom for the boys when he 
should have taken them into Silesia, to their pa- 
rents ; for he no longer doubted Eugene’s having 
told him the truth of his being a nobleman’s son, 
since Felix, whom he was too shrewd an observer 
to believe a knave, had corroborated his statement. 
Exulting, therefore, in the chance of money-making 
which had so unexpectedly arisen, he amused him- 
self by watching the officers, whilst they watched 
himself. He shut the boys up, so that they could 
not escape (for his dwelling afforded more places 
for concealment than those we have mentioned), 
secreted the watch and money taken from them in 
a vault in his cellar, where, notwithstanding his 
seeming poverty, rich treasure was concealed ; and 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 215 

taking up his bag, he slung it over his shoulder, 
and sung out “ old clothes !” in every street in the 
city. 

As no one had been seen to enter the dwelling, 
for Simon had means of egress known only to 
himself, the police, deceived by the old man’s 
apparent indifference, relaxed much of their vigi- 
lance ; thus giving him the opportunity he wanted, 
to remove his prisoners beyond all reach of disco- 
very. For many days, he had hidden them in one 
of the dark nooks of the garret before described ; 
but, anxious as- he was for their removal, he did 
not dare attempt it until he saw that the coast was 
perfectly clear. 

A night, so wild and stormy that it had driven 
all who had homes to seek their shelter, and suffi- 
cient to excuse the messengers of the law from 
pursuing their discovery, even if they had made 
one, was the time chosen for this purpose. His 
old waggon had been got ready in the morning ; 
and, entering it alone, he drove out of the city, 
only to return by another way, where he left it at 
a place, and in the care of one to whom himself 
and his movements were w T ell known. He had a 
brother-in-law who was a cabinet-maker, and who 
lived in a distant province on the very borders of 
Russia ; and his taking two boys there could create 
no suspicion, even if the police advertisements had 
reached that remote spot ; since it might be sup- 


216 THE neighbors’ children. 

posed that he intended to place them as appren- 
tices to the business. Little of the truth could be 
gained from themselves, since Eugene could never 
learn to speak Polish so as to be understood ; and 
although Felix succeeded much better, it would 
avail but little, since out of the family of his 
brother-in-law, who was a German Jew, they would 
hear little except Russian spoken. 

He was not a little surprised, however, when 
Felix utterly refused to leave the garret-chamber. 
The boy, perfectly assured of his own integrity, 
had no idea but that others were so also. He had 
no doubt that search would be made for him as 
soon as missed ; but never dreamed that he would 
be suspected of theft. All the time of his impri- 
sonment, he had listened with characteristic impa- 
tience to every noise that approached from the 
street ; believing it some one coming to procure his 
liberation. He therefore, as we have said, de- 
clared his resolution not to leave that house, or the 
city, without making an outcry that should be 
heard ; but for this the hoary villain was prepared. 
He drew the advertisement, containing a descrip- 
tion of our hero’s person, and offering a reward for 
his apprehension, from his pocket, and with a smile 
of malicious meaning, opened and handed it to 
him to read; stating, at the same time, that Eu- 
gene also was watched by the police for having 
stolen the watch ; and that his removing them at 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 217 

this time was truly an act of intended kindness, 
and to prevent both from meeting the punishment 
threatened by the law; which, as they had no 
witness to prove their innocence, they would be 
sure to suffer. 

With what anguish our unlucky hero listened to 
his statement ! The blood chilled round his heart 
at the reproach thus publicly cast upon his fair 
fame — denounced and followed as a common thief 
— what availed either resistance or resolution? 
He buried his face in his hands for a moment, as 
if in mute despair ; then, mastering, by a powerful 
effort, the emotion that attended the destruction of 
the long-cherished hope of being restored to his 
home, now so nearly accomplished, he rose calmly, 
stod told the Jew he was willing to go wherever he 
might choose to lead. Simon smiled, and replied, 
“that he was glad to see him at last brought -to 
reason ; that he had better be as quiet as possible, 
since the least noise might bring the police upon 
them, which must end in the ruin both of Eugene 
and himself.” 

Taking his trembling companion by the hand, 
our hero mechanically followed his wily conductor 
down a dark back stair ; and leaving the house by 
a different door than that which they had entered, 
they soon gained the street. Unheeding the storm 
which was furiously raging, Simon led his charge 
through little-used thoroughfares, and narrow 
^ 19 


218 THE neighbors’ children. 

alleys, groping his way through the darkness, but 
still threading his winding course with the coolness 
of one accustomed to peril. They gained the spot 
where he had left his waggon, without interruption, 
and bidding the boys get in, he took the reins in 
his own hands ; when, driving off at a rapid rate, 
the city was soon left behind. 

Eugene gave way, as usual, to a violent fit of 
sobbing. Felix mourned over the repetition of his 
fault, which had once more led to such untoward 
consequences ; and uttering no word of complaint, 
he yielded to the destiny which seemed to pursue 
him, and rendered now more unbearable by the 
severity of his self-reproach. Poor boy ! he had 
learned some hard lessons, but there were some 
harder ones yet to come. The world’s teachings 
are ever severe, and they end but with life. 

We must now part company, for a time, with 
the unhappy young travellers, and leave them to 
battle with the fate that awaited them ; although 
further than ever from the accomplishment of their 
wishes, and though their hearts grew heavier as 
each mile increased the distance between them and 
their Fatherland. But we leave them in company 
with the hoary villain who had them in his power, 
to journey once more, through rain and storm, over 
the vast wild plains of Poland; and go back to 
Steinrode, where w T e have not been for a long 
time. 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


219 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ Hold fast thy truth, young man ; leave age its subtleties. 

And gray-haired policy its maze of falsehood.” 

Things were greatly altered in the old Linden- 
burg Castle, since we left it to follow the fortunes 
of Felix and Eugene. Lady Lindenburg had at 
first borne up wonderfully under the supposed 
death of her darling boy ; but the not finding 
either of the bodies, created an uncertainty in her 
mind, producing a nervous irritation that greatly 
affected her health. She felt that had he sickened 
and died in her presence, she could have borne it. 
She would have wept a mother’s tears, as she 
yielded the precious dust of her child to the earth 
of which it was a part ; she would have bowed to 
the stroke of bereavement, coming from the hand 
of a Father who never chastises but in love, with 
the submission of a Christian ; but she could not 
divest herself of the idea that he might be living, 
since they had no proof of his death — living far 
away from her, and most likely suffering. 

She knew that gipsies had sometimes stolen or 
decoyed boys away — that they were carried to 
remote provinces, or put on board of ships, to 


220 THE neighbors’ children*. 

serve as sailors — and she oftentimes, when the 
winds blew furiously from the giant hills, and 
wailed or blustered round the walls of the stout 
old castle, would think of her vanished boy, and 
imagine him as swinging from the giddy masts, or 
tossing on the raging ocean. 

Baron Lindenburg had left nothing undone to 
find out if the boys were still in life. Advertise- 
ments were put up in all parts of the kingdom — 
messengers sent every where — and large rewards 
offered for their recovery, or at least some clue to 
their fate. 

All proved vain ; and himself and all the family, 
except the mother, at length gave him up as dead, 
and wore not only outward mourning, but were op- 
pressed with the real sorrow of heart, and such as 
could not easily be laid aside. 

Felix, more lively and playful than his brother, 
was missed by all — the servants not less than those 
more nearly connected ; and when the first Christ- 
mas after his departure came round, no festivities 
marked the season — it would have recalled 'too 
vividly and too painfully the contrast between the 
present and the latter. 

The servants at first remarked that an unusual 
gloom and restlessness hung about Amade, the 
servant of Lady Yon Grosse ; and as they talked 
the sad occurrence over beside the kitchen fire, at 
length began to notice that he would not join in 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


221 


any of their conjectures as to the sudden dis- 
appearance of the boys, hooting at Dolly’s belief 
in the Riibezahl, but oftener maintaining a moody 
silence. 

In less than a month, however, his term of 
service had expired, and he had started for his own 
country. Since then no tidings of him had been 
heard by any one at Steinrode. 

At length Lady Lindenburg’s health became so 
seriously affected, that her physician declared 
change of scene and air to be necessary for the 
prolongation of her life — her health, he doubted, 
was lost irrecoverably. This was sad news for her 
family to hear*, they could not bear the thought 
of parting with her; but her husband, who deemed 
no sacrifice too great to be made for the preserva- 
tion of such a valuable life, resolved that there 
should be no separation of the domestic circle, 
until made by the irrevocable mandate. 

A sojourn of some years uuder the milder climate 
of Italy was, therefore, decided upon ; and circum- 
stances turned up most unexpectedly, to furnish 
facilities for their carrying it into speedy execution. 

While his heart was aching under the pressure 
of grief occasioned by the loss of his son, and 
foreboding a gloomy issue from his wife’s failing 
health, Steinrode — the beloved Steinrode — had 
lost its beauty and its charm for him ; and an 
eccentric Englishman, generally, although rais- 
19 * 


222 THE neighbors’ children. 

takenly, considered misanthropic, having more 
money than he knew what to do with, had “ come 
to Germany,” as he said, “ to buy an estate, im- 
prove the condition of the peasantry, and get rid 
of his own countrymen.” 

Travelling round for this purpose, he was pleased 
with the appearance of Steinrode ; and having 
heard, in the course of his questioning in the vil- 
lage, of the proprietor’s going abroad with his 
family for an indefinite time, he made a liberal 
proposal to purchase, which the Baron, scarcely 
taking time for consideration, hastily accepted. 

Lady Lindenburg was greatly distressed at the 
idea of forever parting with Steinrode, so long the 
home of the Baron’s ancestors, but her husband 
urged, that to them, it never could have the charm 
of other days. Felix, who would have taken his 
place when himself was no longer able to fill it, 
was gone forever ; and Herman, who wished, and 
was capable of entering upon a learned profession, 
could not leave his books, to be troubled with 
farming. 

“At any rate, wife,” he added, “you cannot 
recover in this climate, and I care not where I live 
so as you only are spared to me.” 

Lady Lindenburg had nothing more to say. 
The bargain was concluded, the old servants were 
either pensioned off in the village, or recommended 
to the notice of the new proprietor; and Steinrode, 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 223 

the old feudal hold on whose tower the Lindenburg 
banner had floated for generations, passed into the 
hands of an alien and a stranger. But when the 
time for departure came, it was not without great 
feelings of regret that the Baron prepared to leave 
the home of his ancestors. Every spot was visited, 
even to the one where the last trace of his son was 
seen ; and it was only these sad recollections which, 
by darkening the remembrance of former joys, 
gave him perhaps more strength to overcome the 
longing he sometimes felt to return, after he had 
left his native place. 

Until his arrangements were concluded, for it 
took some time to complete them, the family re- 
sided in the capital ; but they had left Germany 
long before Felix exchanged his rude home with 
Dietrich for Petrowsky; and when the latter made 
interest with Mr. Berndt to enquire after them, no 
one had been applied to who knew anything of 
where they had gone. Unwillingly as the chil- 
dren one and all left Steinrode, they parted with 
even more regret from Ehrenfried, who, since the 
loss of Felix, had become their favorite playfellow. 

Steinrode had been sold, furniture and all, just 
as it stood ; and when the juvenile portion of the 
family were about to depart, they had all something 
to leave in the peasant boy’s charge. The English- 
man was a bachelor ; and, as the halls were no 


224 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


more to echo with the merry laugh of childhood, 
all their school-books, toys, dolls, and so forth, 
were carefully put away in a small store-room at 
the very top of the house, the door of which was 
locked, and the key given to Ehrenfried, w T ho was 
to remain with the queer old Englishman at the 
castle. With many tears Pauline gave her darling 
canary-bird back to the care of his former owner ; 
her tears, however, were only tears of regret at 
parting — she knew full well that charge of care- 
fulness was unnecessary ; Peepy "would be well 
taken care of. 

The Baron, not less for the boy’s own sake, than 
on account of his lost son, Felix, who had so 
dearly loved this interesting peasant child, had 
placed a small capital at safe interest for his use; 
and not contented with this act of benevolence 
from himself, had made interest with the present 
eccentric possessor of Steinrode in his behalf. 
Rich, childless, and liberal, his heart, although a 
little warped, was not steeled against the claims 
of real merit. He listened to the Baron’s repre- 
sentations, and when he looked into the clear blue 
eyes that so ingenuously met his own gaze, he had 
insight enough into human nature to see that they 
were true. 

He took the book-loving boy under his protec- 
tion, made him his constant companion, instructed 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


225 


him himself, which he was well able to do, for his 
own store of knowledge was large and varied ; and 
he had his reward, since he was twice blessed. He 
found amusement and a companion for the time he 
would else have found tedious, and had a solid 
satisfaction in witnessing the success which attended 
his efforts to instruct. The sequel will prove how 
greatly the subject of their joint care deserved 
the confidence of both his benefactors. 


226 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN.. 


CHAPTER X. 

“ Nearer he drew, and many a walk traversed 
Of stateliest covert, cedar, pine, or palm ; 

Spot lovelier far, to him, than gardens famed 
Or of revived Adonis, or renowned 
Alcinoas, host of old Laertes’ son.” 

We must now pass over a space of eight years, 
which intervened since the day on which Felix and 
Eugene had disappeared, in such an enigmatical 
manner, from Steinrode. Much as the habits of 
the indwellers were changed, different as were the 
forms that moved about performing the various 
duties of steward, gardener, or farm-bailiff, the 
outward features of the place remained the same. 
It was summer, and the evening sun shed a flood 
of golden light on the hill-sides, where thousands 
of wild flowers basked in the genial rays ; the 
yellow grain already ripening to the harvest, 
waving gracefully in the soft breeze, and like 
gentle undulations of the sea, gave hack his bril- 
liant coloring. As far as nature was concerned, it 
was the same Steinrode of other days. All spoke 
of peace, plenty, and quiet. The milk-maid sung 
her rural ballad, as she stood, pail in hand, waiting 
fw her patient charge; and the Ranz de Vaches 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 227 

rung, not unmusically, through meadow and grove, 
from the lungs of the lusty herdsman, as he drove 
glossy-skinned cows in rank, and kept time with 
his step to his own music. The whole scene was 
in perfect keeping — a calm picture of rural enjoy- 
ment, so shut out from the noisy world, so appa- 
rently peaceful, that no one would suppose sorrow^, 
had ever been there. 

On the road which led from the village to the 
park, and close beside the gate which opened to it 
from the garden (the same which we endeavored to 
describe to our readers in the early part of our 
narration), was seen a tall, fine-looking youth, with 
a small bundle on his shoulder. His dress was 
plain, and rather rough, but it could not conceal 
the lithe, active play of his muscles ; his form, 
straight as a young Hercules, was cast in nature’s 
most perfect mould ; his bright, fair hair, clustering 
around his leather cap, partly shrouded his fair 
temples ; and health had painted roses with her 
own hand, upon his downy cheek. Young and 
handsome as he was blooming and active, the 
marks of deep emotion were visible in his noble 
features; and as his hand rested on the latticed 
gate, it was evidently seen to tremble. At length 
he opened it, and entered, walking slowly over the 
clean gravel-walk, and stopping once or twice, 
stood looking towards the castle, with tear-moist- 
ened eyes. 


228 THE neighbors’ children. 

The gardener had one or two assistants busy in 
another part of the garden, who had not marked 
his approach ; and meeting with no hindrance, the 
young wanderer sought not the regular entrance, 
nor the principal walk ; but like one well acquainted 
with the place, sought out particular spots of inte- 
rest, and still advancing by the further side, at 
length stopped beside the broad pool upon which 
the evening sun was playing. Its pure mirror shone 
like a sheet of burnished gold ; and as it reflected 
back his beams, as if there ought to be no light 
without a corresponding shadow, the overhanging 
shrubs that bordered its sides, mingled their dancing 
shadows with it ; and some lively fish, springing up 
from below, dashed the water-drops around ; and 
they sparkled in all the beauty of prismatic color- 
ing, as they fell back into the stream, and once 
more mingled in its quiet flow. Beautiful as the 
scene was — the distant but plainly distinct hills, 
the fruitful fields, the gay hues of the garden, and 
the clear, pure sky, all speaking loudly of nature’s 
loveliness, and her Creator’s goodness — the young 
^traveller bestowed on it but little of his attention ; 
his dark blue eyes were fixed upon an arbor covered 
with branching vines, beneath whose shade two 
persons were seated. 

One was a large man, who, with his back toward 
the stranger, was bending over a book which he 
held in his hand ; whilst the other, a youth, appa- 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 229 

rently about our traveller’s age, leaned over a map 
spread out upon the table before him, and which 
he seemed to be studying very intently. The 
stranger, with increasing emotion, approached 
slowly, and came quite to the party without being 
observed. The bloom on his cheek grew yet more 
vivid, and bright tears trembled in the large blue 
eyes. The reader was too intent upon his book to 
be interrupted by the slight rustling he made. He 
advanced, still unseen, until within a few steps of 
him ; and letting fall his wanderer’s staff, he 
stretched forth his trembling arms, and exclaimed, 
“ My father !” 

The person addressed turned round hastily to 
see who was the intruder ; and the features of one 
who was a perfect stranger, gazing in mute wonder, 
met the eyes of the disappointed traveller. A loud 
cry of painful surprise broke involuntarily from the 
lips of the latter; but in the same moment, and 
ere a word could be uttered either in explanation 
or reply, the youth who had been busy in examin- 
ing the map, sprung over the table, and threw 
himself into the still extended arms of the stranger. 

u O, Felix! is it yourself?” “Ehrenfried !” 
cried both, at once ; and after a long separation, we 
find these early friends once more united. But 
what pen can paint the joy of either? Could the 
grave have opened, and given up its dead, Ehren- 
fried’s surprise would not have been greater. It 
20 


230 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


were hard to tell what feeling predominated, as he 
lay in that close embrace, and felt the warm breath 
upon his cheek. The tangible evidence given by 
the pressure of those arms that he had so long 
believed were cold in the grave, was almost too 
much, and he was near fainting. 

He soon, however, recovered, and a hasty expla- 
nation followed, which served to quiet the apprehen- 
sions of Felix, who was scarcely less moved than 
his friend. Ehrenfried introduced him to the new 
master of Steinrode, who gave him not only a 
cordial welcome to his old home, hut such news of 
his parents as was calculated to gladden his heart. 
With feelings almost of bewilderment, he found 
himself treading the old stone-paved halls of 
Steinrode. There were the same wide stairs — the 
never-forgotten family clock, that told the time of 
his birth, and measured his early and happy hours 
— ah ! it chimed not less regularly whilst he was 
absent and suffering, and it would do so when he 
had departed on the journey from where none ever 
return. Seated in the same room, where long ago 
we saw them assembled, and listened to their child- 
ish voices, Felix almost wondered whether or not 
he had been dreaming. Had he really been with 
Dietrich, and in Poland — Petrowsky — Simon — 
Eugene — all the scenes through which he had 
passed, flitted rapidly before his mind’s eye, like 
the fleeting shadows cast by a phantasmagoria. 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN# 231 

He could lay hold on nothing. The furniture was 
all the same — the polished oaken tables and chairs 
— his mother’s curtains — the bright stove, too, was 
there, recalling the pleasant winter evenings ; but 
where were the loved ones who once clustered 
round it ? 

Supper was served, but he was too happy to 
think of eating ; but by the time it was over, he 
had grown calmer, and was able to listen to the 
account the kind Englishman gave him of his 
family. Four years ago they had returned from 
Italy ; and since then had lived in the capital, 
where Baron Lindenburg occupied an important 
place at court. A few weeks ago, he had written 
to the present possessor of Steinrode, in which he 
mentioned that his wife, who was still very feeble, 
had been seized with an unconquerable longing to 
see Steinrode once more ; and he had resolved to 
gratify her by setting out as soon as he heard his 
English friend would not be displeased by a visit. 
At the same time, he enquired if he knew of any 
estate in the neighborhood which was to be sold, 
for there was nothing his family so much desired 
as to be in that neighborhood again ; and as for 
himself, his greatest wish was to spend his last 
days in the retirement afforded by country life. 
He was weary of courts, and the bustle of the 
capital ; and to find a spot that afforded him a view 
of the scenes that he had loved to look upon in his 


232 


THE NEIGHBORS CHILDREN. 


early days, he would be "willing to pay almost any 
price. 

As the old man concluded his narration, although 
the advancing twilight had already begun to shroud 
the earth in her gray mantle, Felix took up his 
pilgrim staff, and prepared to set forth on his 
journey to the capital, but his host held him back. 

“No, no,” said he, “you do not stir from Stein- 
rode this night, that you don’t. I am a queer old 
man, and have always had my own way as well as 
my own notions; and I have got a plan in my 
head which will please you all. What that is you 
shall soon know ; for the present, all you have to 
do is to remain quietly here for a day or two.” 

“Ask any thing of me but that, dear sir,” 
answered Felix, still holding his staff and placing 
his cap on his head, “ any thing else I will do ; 
but think, after an absence of eight years, how 
could I linger even at Steinrode, when I knew 
where my family are to be found — my parents who 
must believe me dead? No, I must go.” 

“ And travel all night and be sick, and lay by 
to-morrow,” returned the Englishman, drily. “Boy- 
like, boylike; but it won’t do. I see I will have 
to tell you more than I intended. Your parents 
are to be here on the day after to-morrow ; and as 
they have left the capital some days ago, and are 
now on their journey, it would answer no good 
purpose for you to set out on foot, since, not know- 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 233 

ing -what road they intended to take, you might 
miss them on the way.” 

Felix still stood irresolute — he knew not how to 
remain, and the old man went on. “ Boy, if you 
are as hard to be persuaded to do wrong as you 
are difficult to manage in this case, you will yet 
prove a treasure to your family. So it seems I 
shall have to tell you more than I wish to ; for I 
love to have those little mysteries. That is one 
of my hobbies. Your father wishes to buy a 
country place ; he shall have Steinrode again at 
the same price I gave him for it. It is a pleasant 
home, but I don’t like a tame life ; I must travel ; 
and so I have determined to make a voyage to 
America, taking Ehrenfried with me. Now all 
you have to do at present is to give up to my whim, 
since by doing so you will likely see your parents 
sooner than by taking your own way.” 

Felix found himself obliged to yield, which he 
did very reluctantly. He deemed every moment 
wasted in which he was not on the road which led 
to the capital and his dear ones ; but when Ehren- 
fried added his entreaties, and spoke of the prepa- 
rations they two would make on the next day; 
this prospect, as well as his own fatigue, which was 
every moment becoming more powerfully felt, 
decided him to conquer his characteristic im- 
patience. 

He retired to rest at an early hour, but he could 
20 * 


234 THE neighboks’ children. 

not sleep — it was the same room, the same bed 
he had shared with his brother Herman ; and busy 
thought, overmatching his worn-out frame, ran riot 
in the feverish excitement caused by the agitating 
circumstances through which he had passed on that 
day. 

He thought over what the meeting between him- 
self and his parents would be — what his brother 
and sisters would think were he to start up sud- 
denly before them — did they really believe he was 
dead, as Ehrenfried had told him they did — ought 
they not to be first written to, in order to prepare 
them for so great a surprise ? But no ; a letter 
could not reach them before they would have 
arrived at Steinrode; and, although thought rapidly 
succeeded to thought, and plan to plan, he still 
remained undecided. In vain he turned his pillow 
again and again to cool his heated temples, and 
invite sleep. The balmy god, with a caprice pecu- 
liarly his own, and unlike the world, flies from the 
couch of joy — he would not obey the summons of 
our hero, and midnight found him still feverish and 
wakeful. Memory held her page open before him, 
and he must read it whether he wished or not to 
do so. 

“ This will not do,” he said at last; “ I shall be 
unfit to bear the meeting myself if I keep on this 
way.” 

He arose from his bed and went to the window, 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 235 

through which the moon was shining, making every 
object in that dear old room distinct, chronicling 
the record of the times gone by so vividly, that it 
almost seemed to him he had never ’been absent 
from it. He raised the sash and looked out on the 
landscape below, which, bathed in her silver light, 
lay spread out as if in holy quiet before him. No 
breeze rustled in the branches — the shadows cast 
by the trees lay motionless on the ground, the dim 
distant outline of the hills, the fringed border of 
the dark forest, and the hedged fields with here 
and there a cottage chimney rising visible in the 
clear light — all those objects on which his fancy 
dwelt whilst a slave in a strange land, were now 
in reality before him. No cloud was in the sky — 
no sound disturbed the universal hush ; and pure, 
calm, and holy as it all looked, it could not fail to 
exert an influence on his excited frame. 

He gazed long, and as he did so, soothing came ; 
for to a lover of Nature her preachings are never 
in vain. He indeed recalled the childish light- 
hearted feelings with which he had last regarded 
them, and contrasted with his present experience. 
Shadow and storm-clouds had since then passed 
thickly over his life ; but now was not the repose, 
so beautifully typified by the scene without, to 
follow, its enjoyment to be greatly enhanced by the 
remembrance of what he had endured ? 

And after all what was it he had been made to 


236 THE neighbors’ children. 

suffer ? hardships, it was true ; but at worst, only 
man’s experience. His teachings had begun while 
he was yet a boy ; and he had surely had nothing 
to complain of, since it enabled him to enter upon 
the important duties of life, and undertake them 
for himself with a prudence and foresight belong- 
ing to maturer years. He regarded them, sus- 
tained and delivered as he had been, as earnests 
of the favor and kindness of his Heavenly Father, 
to cure him of the besetments of his own evil 
nature/ and to teach him that patience which is 
“ necessary to do good works.” 

He had not only been taught by his severe trials 
that man “in this world must have tribulation,” 
but had been visited in the same dark season with 
the promised “peace.” 

He was no longer in dreams, but in reality, at 
his much-loved home, waiting the arrival of those 
who were his earthly treasures. Joy and gratitude 
filled his heart — he felt he had nothing to complain 
of — God had done all things well, and he now saw 
the wdsdom of his providence, although at the time 
the “ affliction was grievous.” 

Alone, surrounded only by the influences which 
speak to the soul and not to the ear, he felt the 
Mighty presence. He knelt on the same spot 
where his childish prayers had been uttered, and 
tears flowed forth profusely — tears which, issuing 
from the purest spring of man’s nature, cannot 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 237 

fail to soothe. They did, and angels registered 
the accompanying petition; for his later life 
proved that the boon he had asked for on earth, 
was ratified in heaven. 

After a time he returned to the couch he had 
left, and the tears he had shed proved as a “bath 
and balm to the soul.” Sleep came now without 
much urging to his pillow ; and the sun rose bright 
above the hill-tops, and his senses were still locked 
in balmy slumber, when Ehrenfried knocked at his 
door, and bade him rise, for breakfast had been 
waiting for some time. 

“Ah! my young traveller,”’ said his merry old 
host, “ you have let the sun beat you by a long 
way ; had you set out for the capital, as you in- 
tended last night, you would have, no doubt, 
reached there ere this time, since you are such an 
early riser. But come, you look pale, you are to 
be excused ; some breakfast will set you up again ; 
here it comes. I do not know,” he continued, 
“ how you will like our English toast and coffee, 
after your Polish gritz and bacon, or beer-soup 
with a bit of toasted cheese running round in it. 
The Poles are a very good sort of people, as I 
found out when I travelled among them years ago ; 
but they lord it a little too hardly over the peas- 
ants. We don’t do so in England.” 

Felix smiled as he took the chair placed for him 
at the table. “ So, sir, you have tasted gritz and 


238 THE NEIGHBORS’ children. 

bacon; there is worse food in the world than 
that.” 

“ So there is, my boy, so there is,” he answered ; 
“I am glad to see you are of the right sort; not 
ready to find too much fault with the bridge, al- 
though a rude one, which has carried you safely 
over. And the rough Polish fare to which you 
have been accustomed has done you no harm ; it 
must be wholesome, if not very palatable, since it 
has given you a complexion that any fair lady 
might envy.” 

“ He always had it,” rejoined Ehrenfried, laugh- 
ing. 

“Well,” replied the host, “it is still saying 
much for it or the climate, that it has not spoiled 
it ; but come,” he continued, as he placed a large 
slice of toast on the plates of each of the boys, 
“ eat heartily, for I intend you shall work to-day. 
When the Lindenburg family left Steinrode, they 
took nothing away with them ; Ehrenfried knows 
all about it ; I want everything fixed as nearly as 
possible as it was when they were here, even to 
the school and toy room. I know many people 
think me odd; but I have my own notions. Now 
arrange everything as you know it used to be, so 
as to have all ready for their arrival to-morrow ; 
for I expect not only your parents, Felix, but the 
whole family to take possession.” 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 239 

The boys joined heartily in the occupation which 
was to create so great a surprise ; and to Felix, 
whose mind had dwelt constantly on Steinrode as 
it looked when he left it, it was an easy task to 
direct what arrangements were to be added to 
those already existing. 

Nevertheless, they had much time to spare ; and 
to fill up the hours that would else have dragged 
heavily, the young friends visited all the spots 
where years ago they had played together — the 
garden where Eugene had ordered Ehrenfried to 
pull off his boots (how changed their conditions 
now), the grassy bank where the latter had sunk 
exhausted in his search after Melanie’s bracelet ; 
and lastly, they went to Petersmiehl, and the cot- 
tage where Ehrenfried had lived with his mother. 
The windows were closed, and the garden over- 
grown ; it looked slovenly and ill-kept. 

“ She don’t live there now,” said Ehrenfried in 
answer to his question, “ but at Steinrode ; farmer 
Shultze turned her out of it three years ago. You 
know she rented it from him until his son Robert, 
out of malice to me, turned his father against her 
by some falsehood he told ; she was greatly troubled 
at first, but it turned out all for the best. Since 
that time we have both lived at the castle, where 
she has the charge of the dairy, and I act as the 
English gentleman’s secretary, when I am not at 
school.” 


240 THE neighbors’ children. 

“ He seems to be a very kind man,” responded 
Felix. 

“ He is,” returned Ehrenfried; “but I have you 
and Herman to thank for all the good that has 
happened me. Who could have thought that the 
kindness that brought you to Petersmiehl, and led 
you to give books, and teach your own lessons just 
as you had learned them to a poor, sick, and igno- 
rant peasant boy, should have borne such valuable 
fruit ? If you had not awakened me to such a love 
of learning, and a desire to gain knowledge, I 
would have been a poor ignorant boy still; and 
with all the industry I could use would only be able 
to provide my mother a living of the poorest 
sort; and now she has every comfort. See how 
many blessings have sprung from your kindness.” 

“But what has become of Robert?” enquired 
Felix, interrupting him less from curiosity than 
embarrassment at hearing his own praises. 

“ 0, that is a sad history,” answered Ehrenfried. 
“ Farmer Shultze purchased a large property a few 
miles from here, and died almost immediately after. 
Robert was not contented to live as his father had 
done, but gave up the management of his affairs to 
a steward, who turned out to be an unprincipled 
man, and betrayed the poor fellow into the hands 
of sharpers, who soon ruined him. From the time 
he became of age he had been advised to be care- 
ful of this man, and to undertake the management 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 241 

of his own affairs ; but he was deaf to all his friends 
could urge ; and so, never having loved books or 
intellectual pleasures, and being without employ- 
ment wherewith to fill up his time, in order to dis- 
sipate the hours that hung so tediously upon him, 
he began to frequent the low ale-houses in the vil- 
lage, where he formed companionships that led him 
to the practice of every species of vice. A love 
of gambling brought him to the lowest grade of 
human depravity ; for, finding himself completely 
impoverished, and having had no education by 
which he could obtain an occupation, even that of 
the poorest paid teacher, he found himself entirely 
without resources. As to bodily labor, he deemed it 
too far beneath him ; and, reduced to actual want, 
he at last sunk so low as to join a plan of house- 
breaking, proposed by his desperate associates. 
An attempt was made by them to rob the dwell- 
ing which his father had purchased, and he had so 
carelessly let slip from his possession. He joined 
the undertaking, and one of the party turned 
traitor, and all was discovered when just on the 
point of succeeding. They were all taken by the 
police, and now ” 

“And what has been his fate?” interrupted 
Felix, impatient to hear the conclusion. 

“ He is no longer in this world,” was the answer ; 
“ he died in prison, a year ago. It seemed a mer- 
ciful interposition of Providence ; for if he had not 
21 


242 THE neighbors’ children. 

suffered a public execution, he would have been 
sentenced to the galleys for life.” 

“The way of the wicked is hard,” said Felix, 
thoughtfully ; “ and they that enter into companion- 
ship with the ungodly, find their path leads unto 
death. I have much to tell you of what I have 
seen and suffered since last I trod these well-re- 
membered paths ; and although in the midst of the 
wicked, beset by snares and temptations, I bless 
God I was preserved from becoming like those who 
would have led me astray.” 

“Tell me, Felix, tell me all,” said Ehrenfried ; 
“ I am impatient to know how you and Eugene 
were spirited away, and what befel you in that 
barbarous province of Russian Poland.” 

“Not now,” answered Felix; “I am at present 
too anxious ; every moment I expect to see the 
carriage that brings my parents. I start at every 
noise like a nervous maiden. It is a long story, 
and will take time to tell ; let us go back to the 
house at present; maybe some tidings of the 
visitors may have arrived.” 

Ehrenfried assented. They returned to the 
castle, and found Mr. Norman (for that was the 
name of the English gentleman,) reading a letter. 

“ They will not be here until the day after to- 
morrow,” said he, in answer to the boys’ look of 
enquiry ; “ but be patient, you will have more time 
to prepare for the meeting.” 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 243 

* 

“ Cannot I go some miles on the road they will 
travel, and so see them sooner? Every minute 
seems an hour^ and every day a week, until I see 
those dear faces once more — those faces that for 
more than eight years I have beheld only in 
dreams.” 

“It is so uncertain which way they will take,” 
said Mr. Norman, “that you by going forward 
may miss them by the very means you take to 
hasten the meeting. No, no ; remain quietly here 
until they come ; you will but have the more time 
to make Steinrode look as it used to do eight years 
ago. They will be ready to suppose they have 
been asleep and dreaming for that length of time, 
when they find Steinrode unchanged, and Felix 
here. We know there are fabled sleepers, and 
visions of enchantment; and as these Silesian hills 
belong to the very realm of superstition, they 
may he ready to think some mischievous goblin has 
been playing them a trick.” 

“ My parents are too good Christians to be 
superstitious,” said Felix, laughing; “but I was a 
true believer in all good Dame Spiller’s marvellous 
stories of the pranks of the Hartz demons. I do 
wonder what the old lady will say when she sees 
me !” 

“ That the Riibezahl has brought you back the 
same as he spirited you away,” rejoined Ehren- 
fried, entering into the merry mood of the others ; 


244 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


“but come, Felix, let us go to work; and while 
we are waiting for the arrival, there will be time 
to tell and hear your story.” 

They took up their caps, and left the castle; 
and as they wandered on the same paths, and 
through the same fields over which he had so often 
bounded in the frolicsome time of his boyhood, as 
he went with his brother to visit Ehrenfried, he 
related to the latter the adventures through which 
he had passed, in the greater part of which we 
have already followed him. 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


245 


CHAPTER XI. 


“We bear our fortunes in our own strong arms.” 


As our readers lost sight of the young adven- 
turers on the stormy night when the old Jew, after 
carefully closing them up in his waggon, drove 
cautiously out of the city, so we will take up the 
thread of our narrative from that point. Closely 
as he had been watched by the police, for a length 
of time, the crafty old villain concerted his plans 
so well, that he was once more able to elude their 
vigilance. It was a night of horror; and none 
but a murderer seeking his victim, or a criminal 
flying from justice, would have dared its fury. 
The thunder rolled, but its voice, although like 
that of a threatening spirit, was unheeded — ■ the 
lightning played in forked streams — and the wildly 
raving tempest threatened destruction to all ex- 
posed to its rage; but the hoary old sinner, in 
whose soul a continual tempest ever fermented, 
cared not for the strife of elements, or convulsion 
of nature. As though he knew himself under the 
protection of some evil power, whose potent rule 
could chain the storm, and fetter its wrath, he 
drove his affrighted horse stoutly forward, uncaring 
21 * 


246 THE neighbors’ children. 

for the pealing thunder, yet straining every listen- 
ing nerve to distinguish noise of pursuit; and 
looking back, to try if in the blinding flashes he 
could discover any pursuing forms. None were in 
sight, and with each mile his confidence increased. 
After midnight, the storm subsided ; and although 
dark and angry clouds still obscured the sky, the 
moon broke out at intervals through the mist ; and 
by her struggling light the young travellers saw 
that they had left the high-road, and were again 
entering on a rude and savage district. 

As each mile disclosed some new feature of 
barbarous wildness, that forcibly reminded them of 
scenes they had passed through with Dietrich, their 
young hearts sunk within them at the idea of once 
more encountering the horrors of a remote pro- 
vince in Russian Poland, which they had no doubt 
was at this time their point of destination. As 
the day struggled into existence, and they could, 
by watching the course of the clouds, which were 
driving wildly before the wind, determine to what 
point of the compass their course was steering, 
their feelings were little short of despair. Eugene, 
as usual, was loud in his lamentations ; but Felix, 
tortured by self-reproach, uttered not a word. He 
looked out on the bleak and seemingly interminable 
plains, varied only by patches of heath, and on 
which, at times, a brilliant spot of sunlight rested, 
as it broke forth from the driving clouds; con- 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 247 

trasting, by its vividness, with the sombre hue that 
rested on all else around ; and as it would vanish 
as rapidly as it had arisen, was only too true an 
emblem of the bright and evanescent hope that 
had so lately illumed the dreary waste of his own 
cheerless existence. 

But youth is ever hopeful. The very alterna- 
tion of light and shadow cast upon the face of 
nature by the drifting cloud and flying sunbeam, 
awoke a better spirit in the youth’s heart. “ The 
sunbeam,” said he, “is hidden by the cloud, and 
the darkness, in its turn, is driven away by the 
cheering ray. So it is in life, at least as I have 
found it ; all is not brightness, neither is all gloom. 
I will hope on, and hope ever;” and with such 
thoughts he began at last to feel comforted. 

The wind still swept by in wintry gusts, but its 
shrill whistle was unheeded ; and wondering what 
could be Simon’s intention, or to what place he 
was taking them, he gave himself up to more ma- 
ture deliberation than was to be expected from one 
of his years ; surveying the land-marks, and noting 
all conspicuous objects on the sterile plains over 
which they were passing, in the prospect of such 
observations one day aiding them in effecting their 
escape. They travelled over those flat plains for. 
many days, when one evening, after objects became 
indistinct in the advancing twilight, their conductor 
drew up before the door of a house, at one end of a 


248 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


village, which Simon informed them was the resi- 
dence of his brother-in-law, the cabinet-maker, 
with whom they were to remain. 

“At this place,” said Felix, in his relation to 
Ehrenfried, “we had not the best times; we were 
kept constantly at work in the shop, and up late 
and early. This was harder on Eugene than on 
myself; for he was always averse to doing any- 
thing, and every day became more discontented. 
I comforted him as w r ell as I could, and helped him 
out of many unpleasant circumstances, into which 
he had fallen by his own perverseness. From day 
to day, I looked for Simon’s return ; I knew he 
had gone into Silesia, and I was assured the reward 
he hoped to receive, when he found our story true, 
would induce him to come back that way, and take 
us to our homes. Horwitz, our new master, also 
waited anxiously for news from his brother-in-law ; 
but as none came, and month after month passed 
away, he at length placed us in the shop as regular 
apprentices, declaring that we must serve the full 
time, as he w T as unable to support us except on such 
terms. He was a very different person from 
Simon, and by no means unreasonable in his de- 
mands. He exacted a steady obedience, but was 
as upright and honest as his brother-in-law was 
knavish ; and whilst he represented his own ina- 
bility to send us into Silesia, explained that it 
could do us no harm to learn a respectable trade, 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 249 

since it would at last furnish us with the means to 
travel homewards, if Simon should fail to return 
with tidings. 

“ So, then, for three tedious years we had to 
serve a pretty tough time of apprenticeship ; my 
heart was often heavy enough ; but I had the good 
fortune to gain my master’s confidence and favor 
through some slight services I rendered him, and 
finding I understood figures, he made me his book- 
keeper. You know I always loved to draw. I 
made some designs — designs from the remem- 
brances of Steinrode — for him on paper ; and as 
the pieces of furniture made from those patterns 
were approved, and opened a new source of profit, 
Horwitz made me several presents of small sums 
of money, and promised to relinquish the last year 
of my apprenticeship. 0, how happy I was to 
hear it. Besides, I could, by working at odd hours, 
earn something for myself; this I carefully laid 
away every week ; and counting it over, found I 
would soon have enough to carry me into Silesia. 
But, now anxious as I was to go home, I could not 
bear to leave Eugene behind. I entreated our 
master to give him his freedom ; but I could not 
prevail upon him to do so. He said ‘he had 
nothing but trouble with him ; he was self-willed 
and lazy ; and he would not release him from his 
last year, unless for an indemnifying sum.’ 

“Indeed, I did not much wonder; for it was 


250 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


true he had little right to be indulgent and kind. 
Eugene had not at all improved, hut remained as 
untractable as ever ; not only disobedient and 
negligent of his duties, but tried, by the playing 
off of some petty tricks on members of the house- 
hold, and every other means, to provoke and irri- 
tate his master. The money that he received for 
carrying home furniture, he spent as regularly for 
some unnecessary dainty; and in spite of all I 
could urge, would not take the least trouble to con- 
ciliate his master, or lay anything up to bear the 
expense of his hoped-for journey. 

u One day as I was searching for something in an 
unused part of the house, my eyes fell upon an old 
cupboard that stood almost out of sight in a corner ; 
although nearly dropping to pieces through age 
and decay, the quaint and old-fashioned carving 
attracted my attention. I imagined it might once 
have graced the hall of some barbarian king, in 
some by-gone age ; and having always a reverence 
for these old chroniclers, I begged my master to 
let me repair it, for I thought it well worth the 
trouble. Laughing at my enthusiasm, he consented, 
saying I might ‘ have the old thing for my trouble ; 
that it had been in that corner ever since he could 
remember, and he had heard his father say it had 
been many generations in the family, although 
none of them knew how it came into their posses- 
sion.’ 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 251 

“ Although it was a holiday, I began at once to 
work upon it. In the meantime, Eugene sat at the 
shop window, looking moodily out into the street. 
I begged him on this morning, as I had done often 
before, to get at some work at spare times to help 
himself a little. I told him, too, how willingly I 
would work if he would aid me, in order to raise 
the requisite sum to pay Ilorwitz for the release 
of his last year. As it would require a long time 
for me to do so, since he had nothing laid by, 
neither would assist, I deemed it best for myself to 
go at once into Silesia, to seek my own and his 
parents, and they could at once send the necessary 
sum. With this proposition he was greatly dis- 
contented. 

“‘No, indeed,’ said he; 4 1 would rather wait 
until you can gather the necessary sum ; you have 
the knack of earning money, which I have not ; so 
do not talk of going. How do you think I could 
stay in this horrible place alone ?’ 

“ You may think, Ehrenfried, how this behaviour 
vexed me ; what pain that selfishness which thought 
only of its own desire, and cared not for my long- 
ing even to sickness for home, gave me. I thought 
of a passage I had once read, 6 that selfishness, like 
the sand of the desert, drank up all, and returned 
nothing.’ I made him no answer, hut began to 
work on my old cupboard, while he still sat idle, 
and gazing out of the window. 


252 THE neighbors’ children. 

“ But I must now tell you that, with the consent 
as well as advice of my master, in the early part 
of my apprenticeship I had written twice to my 
parents. To the first no answer came; the last 
came back with these words written on it: ‘No 
family of that name at Steinrode — left many years 
ago.’ Not altogether discouraged, I then wrote a 
third, and directed it to aunt Angela, who lived in 
the capital ; but this too was returned, with the 
tidings written also on the cover, ‘ that the lady 
addressed had been many years abroad, perhaps in 
England, most likely in Italy ; but her residence 
in either country was unknown.’ 

“ There was now nothing left for me hut to wait 
patiently for the term of my apprenticeship to ex- 
pire, and then set out myself to seek my family in 
whatever part of the world they might he sojourning. 
I therefore gave up writing, as I was indebted to my 
master for postage money ; * and to a boy without 
means of making any, as I was at that time, it was 
no easy matter to repay. 

“ One day, as I was very busy with my plan of 
repairing the old cupboard, I observed on one side 
a singular piece of carving, which did not match 
with the rest, and of greatly superior workman- 
ship. I wondered how it had ever come to be 


* Postage is a much more important item of expense in 
Europe than in our own country. 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 253 

placed there ; and the idea struck me, that by re- 
moving it I could use it more advantageously by 
ornamenting some other piece of furniture with it. 
I accordingly got my tools, and began to endeavor 
to loosen it; but it was so tightly imbedded in 
the wood, that my efforts were vain ; I could not 
move it an inch. I called to Eugene to come and 
help me ; but his ill-humor had not gone off, and 
without turning his head from the street on which 
he continued to gaze, he answered sullenly, 

44 4 Indeed I will not do any such thing ; I work 
enough other days, and I am not going to take any 
unnecessary trouble on holidays.’ 

44 1 said nothing more to him, but continued to 
work away with all my strength at the piece of 
carving, which seemed to be made of iron rather 
than wood. At length by a powerful effort, just 
as I contemplated giving it up as a hopeless job, 
it yielded ; and at the same moment a concealed 
drawer flew open, and a large sum of money, in 
rouleaux of gold and silver, lay before my eyes. 
Eugene, awakened from his indifference, now stood 
near me ; and as he surveyed the treasure with the 
gloating look of a miser, he exclaimed, joyfully, 
4 See there, Felix, we are rich now without any 
trouble, or wronging any one. With this money 
I can get my freedom ; and now leave off working 
at the old cupboard, and let us go home !’ 

He made a movement towards the drawer, as 
22 


254 THE neighbors’ children. 

if to grasp the gold, but I caught his hand and held 
him back. 

44 4 Without wronging any one ? ’ I repeated 
quietly ; 4 do you think it your right to take pos- 
session of this money? It does not belong to 
either you or myself.’ 

44 4 Now, Felix,’ rejoined he, 4 1 hope you are 
not going to be such a fool as to tell this secret to 
our master ? the treasure does not belong to him, 
I am sure.’ 

44 4 If not to him, much less to you,’ said I in 
answer : taking up the rouleaux of gold out of the 
drawer, I put them in my pocket, and took my 
way towards the family room, where I knew I 
should find our master. Eugene, by this time in 
a towering passion, sprang after me ; and seizing 
me by the collar, endeavored to possess himself 
of the money. His attack was so sudden, that it 
cost me some trouble to defend myself. 

44 1 kept him at bay for some time; but his 
anger getting the better of his prudence, he 
snatched up the knife I had been using from the 
work-bench where I had thrown it, and pierced me 
in the side. A little pinchbeck watch, which my 
master had given me, broke the force of the blow, 
and saved my life. The stroke was not deep, but 
the wound bled profusely; yet only for the watch, 
and my life would have been the sacrifice, and 
Eugene forever unhappy ; since the murderer’s act 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


255 


would have been the consequence of his own rash- 
ness only. I bound up the wound myself as well 
as I could, for Eugene was of no use to assist ; as 
sincere in his repentance as he had a few minutes 
before been furious in his anger, he now lay rolling 
upon the floor, reproaching himself with what he 
had done, and bidding me do as I pleased with the 
money — 4 he wanted none of it.’ 

44 1 left him to complain and weep as long as he 
chose, and went to our master ; who was greatly 
pleased with what he called my honesty, as well as 
the receipt of the money. He told me the old 
cupboard had been possessed by his family for 
many generations ; and it was only on that account 
that he had not broken up the unsightly old thing 
years ago. He supposed the gold must have been 
hidden in the drawer, for safe-keeping, in the time 
of the ‘Thirty Years’ War;’ those lawless days, 
when persons were obliged to secrete almost every- 
thing, to secure it from the violence of marauding 
soldiers. Of course, the money belonged to him, 
but he was no niggard ; he took one of the rou- 
leaux, and giving it to me, wished me ‘good 
luck!’ I accepted it without hesitation; and going 
back to Eugene, who had risen from the floor, and 
was again seated at the window, apparently in 
great trouble, I laid the whole of it in his cap. 

44 ‘Now go to our master,’ said I; ‘pay what he 
asks as the price of your last year, and to-morrow 


256 THE neighbors’ children. 

morning we will pack up our traps, and set out for 
Silesia.’ Eugene stared at me in mute wonder ; 
then, throwing his arms around my neck, he em- 
braced me warmly for a moment, and without 
uttering a word, rushed out of the house. 

“ I did not attempt to follow, nor question him ; 
but having no doubt that he would do as I advised, 
I walked down into the village, and purchased two 
portmanteaus, dreaming of nothing else than that 
we should both set out on our journey the next 
morning. I was greatly astonished, on my return, 
at not being able to find Eugene. I asked the 
children — they did not know where he was ; I 
applied to Horwitz — he had seen nothing of him. 
It was evident he had not gone to him with the 
money I had given him, as our master was at home 
the whole day. As the day advanced, I became 
more and more uneasy; evening fell, but the truant 
did not return. I proposed to Horwitz that we 
should seek him, and he consented; but we both 
had to return without having found him. 

“ Horwitz went to bed ; but, uncertain what I 
ought to do, I could not sleep ; I therefore resolved 
to sit up awhile, in hope of his coming. After an 
hour or two had passed, I heard a knock at the 
door. I knew whose it was, and hastened joyfully 
to open it, when Eugene, with flushed and inflamed 
features, stood before me. But you may imagine 
how I felt when I saw that he was beastly drunk ; 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 257 

he laughed wildly when he saw me, and when I 
enquired where he had been, he answered, in all 
the pride of drunken insolence, — ‘ What business 
is it of yours ? Do you think you are to be my 
master, because you gave me some money that you 
earned very easily ? 0, it has flown away as 
lightly as it came ! See there ! my pocket is 
empty, and I am under no obligation to you.’ 

“ A sad foreboding arose in my heart, of which 
the tidings of the next day fully verified the truth. 
Instead of going to seek our master in his own 
house, Eugene went to a miserable ale-house in the 
suburbs (it seemed he was in the habit of frequent- 
ing it, unknown to me) ; on this holiday occasion, 
he found many apprentices there ; and among 
them, one haughty boy, rather richer than the 
rest, and being the only son of a doting mother, 
he had money at all times, and for all purposes. 
This youth had never liked Eugene, and now, in a 
mocking manner, asked him ‘if he would not treat 
the company to wine ; as he had always given 
himself out to be a nobleman’s son, he ought to 
show, by his liberality, that he really was so. 
Eugene, too hot-headed to treat this silly speech 
from one half-drunk with the contempt it deserved, 
called loudly for wine, tossed a piece of gold pom- 
pously on the table, in payment, and boasted that 
he had plenty more. He pledged his companions, 
and drank deeply ; the wine mounted to his brain, 
22 * 


258 THE neighbors’ children. 

and he began to look with great interest on a party 
of strangers, who were playing cards at a table 
near him. He saw how easily large sums were 
won — why might not the same good fortune be 
his ? Then he could have enough to spend upon 
pleasures he had not known for a long time, and 
without the striving and grinding of perpetual toil. 
He knew the game ah! Ehrenfried! you re- 

member how we used to tell you of the Hausdorff 
children driving the time away with playing cards 
— and when the strangers at last invited him to 
join their party, he was only too willing to accept 
of the invitation. At first, he won considerably ; 
and his spirits rose as he contemplated the sum 
that lay beside him. What I had given him was 
to pay for his freedom — the little we both had 
would only serve to defray the expense of a jour- 
ney on foot ; but Eugene had a spirit above this, 
that is, when it could be helped. How much 
better, and how much more suitable it would be, 
for the heir of the Yon Grosse family to go home 
in a post-chaise ; ‘ his father never travelled with a 
knapsack on his back, like a wandering tinker, and 
he would not disgrace his family by doing so.’ 

“ He staked more than all he had won ; and 
wdth beating heart, and trembling hands, watched 
the course of the cards. He lost — and as part of 
the money I had given him to pay for his freedom, 
was gone, with that desperation which always 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


259 


marks the gambler, he determined to risk what yet 
remained, in the hope of winning back that which 
was lost. With feelings of increasing anguish, he 
staked one thaler after another, until he had emp- 
tied his pockets of every farthing. The players, 
seeing he had nothing more to lose, now rose up 
from the table, and declared the play was ended. 
To this, however, Eugene would by no means con- 
sent ; he insisted that they should continue the 
game, so as to give him a chance of retrieving his 
losses ; he said he would go home for more money, 
which he could easily get by applying to me. 

“ The players then began to inquire who he 
was ; and finding that he was only a cabinet- 
maker’s apprentice, became very angry ; they 
reproached him with having deceived them by 
representing himself as the son of a nobleman, so 
that he might thrust himself into better company 
than that to which his birth entitled him; and this, 
as may well be supposed from our knowledge of his 
character, provoking an insolent answer, brought 
on a contest which ended by their throwing him 
out into the street. 

“ It was not until the evening of the next day 
that Eugene was sober enough to give me these 
particulars. Ashamed of his behavior, and sin- 
cerely repentant, he begged me no longer to delay 
my journey into Silesia ; to find his parents, if 
possible, and send his father to liberate him. I 


260 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


considered this the safest, as well as the shortest 
plan ; and so, shouldering my knapsack, I bade 
farewell to my master, and to Eugene, who stood 
looking after me with a face expressive of so much 
sorrow, that I was once almost tempted to return, 
and stay to work out the time demanded for his 
ransom. But prudence prevailed over sympathy. 
My heart grew lighter as each mile lessened the 
distance between myself and Steinrode ; and as I 
saw the sterile plains of Poland gradually exchange 
for the cultivated fields of Germany — as the glo- 
rious mountains of my Fatherland shut out the 
view of that inhospitable and despotic region where 
I had so long been made to hear the yoke of sla- 
very, I cannot tell you what I felt. It was joy — 
pure, unmitigated joy. I was proud of having 
been born a son of Teutonic forefathers — I gloried 
that mine was the land of learning and invention 
— and this high tide of enthusiasm did not at all 
subside until I saw the Silesian hills. The Giant’s 
Crest, with his mantle of eternal snow — old Zob- 
tenberg, with his cap full of storms — there they 
were, looking just as they had done in the happy 
days of my boyhood ; but my spirits sunk when I 
thought of those who had looked upon them with 
me — ah ! where were they ? I journeyed on ; I 
recollected hamlets and fields — I hailed the towers 
of Steinrode from afar — there was the forest, the 
brook, and the park; but although I met many 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 261 

forms wearing the peasant dress once so familiar, 
there was not one face whose lineaments reminded 
me of any one I had ever known. You know the 
rest, Ehrenfried ; and now, perhaps you can give 
me some clue whereby I can find the Yon Grosse 
family ; for in my own happiness, I must not for- 
get that Eugene is still in slavery, and waiting for 
his father to release him.” 

This was a question which neither Ehrenfried 
nor his patron could answer, and Eelix was obliged 
to await the coming of his family ; they alone, it 
was likely, knew to what part of the country they 
had withdrawn. In the few months they had lived 
in this neighborhood, their conduct had not been 
such as to create many friends ; and so, when they 
left, no one cared to enquire whither they had 
gone, or how they fared. 

Mr. Norman treated Felix as if he had been his 
own son, bidding him consider himself at liberty 
to do at Steinrode just as he had been used to in 
by-gone days ; and the latter was rejoiced to find 
in Ehrenfried, now grown to be a man, the same 
unassuming, gentle spirit, he had so loved him for 
when a child. Entirely unspoiled by his pros- 
perity, and the indulgence shown him by his 
eccentric patron, Felix found him even more worthy 
of the friendship he had formed with him in earlier 
days — need we say it was again warmly renewed ? 

But with all this happiness around him, his heart 


262 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


pined for the arrival of his family. In the morn- 
ing, he would he sure that ere that day’s sun had 
sped his course, he would have been folded to his 
mother’s heart ; but day after day passed, and still 
they came not. The sickening pang of hope 
deferred began to weigh heavily upon our hero’s 
heart; and it was only by being kept busy in 
carrying out the plan of his singular host, namely, 
to make everything look as much as possible as 
they did when the family left Steinrode, that he 
was able to control his impatience to be with them. 
It was indeed no small relief to his nervous longing 
for their arrival, that he was obliged to direct 
everything ; the furniture must be placed just as 
it had been when they dwelt here — the curtains all 
put up — and whatever articles of English comfort 
had found their way among the heavy specimens 
of German house-keeping, were, by the orders of 
Mr. Norman, laid aside. 

But in the garden, his task was peculiarly plea- 
sant ; his memory bore the truest record of all as 
it had been arranged there. There, under that 
linden, and beside those beautiful oleanders, the 
little bench was placed, where his mother, on sum- 
mer afternoons, would sit to work or read. The 
bench had decayed, and fallen down, but he had it 
renewed. There, on the other side, in a corres- 
ponding shade, had stood the table around w r hich 
they had often sat, when choosing to take their 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 263 

evening meal in the open air. The old camp-chairs 
had been stored away ; hut now, brought out from 
their dusty nook in an unused corner of the castle, 
they were again placed around it, as though the 
family had just arisen from the repast. Nor was 
the old gymnasium forgotten — the two youths 
entered heart and hand in this ; it was neatly put 
up again, and the space around it filled with fine 
sand. 

Their business of arranging was nearly com- 
• pleted, when one evening, Mr. Norman received a 
letter from the Baron, telling him they might be 
expected on the next day. 0, how happy was 
Felix! he read the letter again and again; and 
although he passed a sleepless night, he was up by 
daylight, to put the finishing touches to what was 
already begun. Garlands of flowers, such as the 
sisters used to make to decorate the walls of the 
vestibule and the old stone hall, were not wanting. 
They waved in graceful festoons from the antlers 
of slaughtered deer, that hung there as trophies 
of some chase-loving ancestor’s skill; Ehrenfried 
and Felix, themselves not wanting in taste for 
flowers, succeeded well in this ; for who does not 
succeed, when the labor is one of love ? Nothing 
was forgotten. Vases filled with flowers, remem- 
bered to have been favorites with his mother, were 
placed in the chamber formerly her own; on the 
garden-table, lay a volume which she had always 


264 THE neighbors’ children. 

loved to read ; and near it, to bring back as nearly 
as possible the appearances of other years, a little 
basket, full of keys borrowed from the house- 
keeper, was seen — a gentle hint that Lady Linden- 
burg was not deficient nor negligent in a matter 
involving so much of comfort as does the know- 
ledge of being able to conduct and manage the 
affairs of a large household. 

The day passed on, and Time, who neither 
hastens nor delays his course, brought round the 
hours at which they might begin to look out for 
the carriages in which they were to travel. At 
length they were in sight. 

“Can it be possible!” thought Felix, “that 
within this hour I shall meet my parents. But 
the meeting with my mother — it will not do to 
surprise her ; I must not come to before her until 
Mr. Norman or Ehrenfried has told her all;” and 
scarcely able to restrain his own impatience, he 
retreated to a small patch of shrubbery in the 
garden, himself concealed by the friendly thicket, 
where he could see and hear all. 

The carriage drove up to the hall door, and its 
occupants alighted. Felix’s heart beat audibly, as 
two well-remembered forms ascended the stone 
steps that led up to the hall — could they really be 
those of his parents — after nearly nine years of 
absence and sore trial, did he truly behold them, 
or was it only a dream, such as he had often had 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 265 

in sleep. The lady turned her head towards the 
spot where Felix was concealed, and her features 
were distinctly revealed to the anxious son, who 
could scarcely resist the impulse he felt to rush 
forward to meet her. But one glance was suffi- 
cient to show him how greatly nine years had 
changed those features. She looked much older, 
was very pale, and her step was feeble and languid. 
Ah ! sorrow records her march much more strongly 
than time ! her impressions are sterner and even 
more indelible ! 

But who are those tall, slender maidens, grace- 
ful and elegant as those brought up in court atmo- 
sphere, who, bounding up the steps, stood gazing 
round on the prospect, as if too much delighted in 
viewing the beauties without, to think of exchang- 
ing the sight for the comforts within — could they 
be his sisters, the joyous companions of his child- 
hood ; who, wild as the birds of Steinrode forest, 
had gambolled over the very spot with himself? 

He had almost called aloud to them — an excla- 
mation of joy was ready to burst from his lips; 
but he restrained it. He pressed his hands close 
upon his wildly throbbing heart, a film over- 
shadowed his eyes, and he was near fainting. 

They entered the castle, but it was only for a 
few minutes, and to lay off their travelling mantles. 
The Baron and Lady Lindenburg were talking to 
their host ; and the happy maidens felt at liberty 
23 


266 THE neighbors’ children. 

to run wherever they pleased. They chose the 
garden first ; although not strictly within the rule 
of politeness, they could not resist the temptation 
to visit those never-forgotten spots where their 
childish sports had been enjoyed. 

The sun was near setting, and their English host 
had directed an early supper, or rather lunch, to 
be set out on the table in the garden. The air 
was mild and balmy; and the soft shadows cast 
by the overhanging branches on the spot below, 
made this particularly pleasant to those who (as is 
much the usage in Europe,) are accustomed to 
take their evening meal in the open air. 

Baron and Lady Lindenburg and their host were 
now seen advancing to the spot where the servants 
had spread out the repast. The latter called his 
guests’ attention to some English improvement he 
had made ; and while the gentlemen stopped to 
examine it, the mother walked forward to join her 
daughters in the garden. 

This was the time chosen by Mr. Norman to 
make the disclosure of Felix’s existence and 
presence ; but he had a roundabout way of his 
own for doing every thing; and he must finish 
talking over his English fixtures before he entered 
on the subject in which Baron Lindenburg might 
well be supposed to be most interested. Before 
he had concluded the first part of his conversation 
the denouement had been made. Lady Linden- 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 267 

burg, as we stated, left the gentlemen to join her 
daughters. Little Pauline of other days was now 
a lively girl of fourteen ; her eyes were as blue and 
gentle as ever ; she carried her straw bonnet hang- 
ing by its strings carelessly over her arm, her 
bright curls floating in the summer breeze, and her 
fair features radiant with health and happiness. 
Not altogether out of the ranks of childhood, not- 
withstanding her rapid growth, she bounded on 
before the rest, skipping through walk and alley, 
as frolicsome as at the earlier period of our story. 
At one end of the gravelled path she suddenly 
stopped and uttered an exclamation of surprise ; 
for there, right in the way before her, was a little 
carriage made of basket-work, full of dolls, and 
strewn over with flowers. 

“ 0, mother, dear mother, only look here,” she 
exclaimed, as she bent over what had once been 
her favorite possession ; “ surely some kind fairy 
has brought my old waggon from Elfland, to remind 
me of my childhood’s Paradise. Just see, Adie — 
Emma, there is Rosalie, my own sweet wax doll 
that poor Felix gave me for a Christmas gift. Ah ; 
poor, dear Felix ! ” she stopped, for the sisters 
made a sign that this was a subject on which their 
mother had better not be agitated ; and while they 
stood smiling and wondering over the little toy 
waggon, a canary bird set up his sweet warbling 
just above their heads. Pauline looked up. 


268 THE neighbors’ children. 

“0, what a good fairy this has been, to take 
such care of all that belonged to me — there is 
Peepy, my own Peepy ! ” she exclaimed, clapping 
her hands in joyful glee. “ Am I not happy ! how 
much rather I would live in the country ! I do wish 
father would stay here all the time ; it is so much 
more pleasant to look at the fields and mountains, 
and hear the birds, than to be pent up among high 
brick walls and narrow streets, in the capital.” 

“ That is not Peepy, I am sure,” said Emma, 
laughing; “ Peepy would be too old to sing so 
lively ; but I think the new warbler must be a 
relation, he is so much like the the old bird. But 
I agree with you in liking the country the best,” 
she continued, as she broke a branch of blooming 
Euphrasy from its graceful stem, and twined it 
into the curls of the happy Pauline, who, forget- 
ful of the years that had passed, was a child again, 
amusing herself as she used to do long ago, by 
drawing her doll-laden wagon along the walk. 

“Indeed, Adie,” said Emma, “there is no con- 
cert that I have heard in the capital half so fine 
as that I have hear$ from the larks this morning, 
as we travelled at sunrise. How sweetly their 
songs rose from the ripe green fields on which the 
dew-drops, glittered like diamonds in the crown 
of a prince. Indeed, I wish with Pauline, father 
would stay in the country.” 

“And give up the Opera, the glorious court- 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 269 

ball, and the parade of the royal guards, held just 
before our window?” asked Adelaide, smiling. 

“ 0, I know what you mean,” was the laughing 
answer ; “ you are jeering me now, Adie, because 
at first I expressed my great admiration for those 
things ; but the charm of novelty was soon over, 
and I often wished myself back here among those 
green and odorous woods, resounding with the song 
of birds. I longed for the flower-beds I had made 
myself, and where I found more pleasure in watch- 
ing the seeds spring up, than in all the exotics in 
painted vases, with which the court gardener used 
to send to decorate our parlor ; and this morning, 
as I saw the merry calves and lambs, as they were 
let loose from the stable, how they skipped and 
played, I could not help confessing how much more 
amusing it was to watch their movements, than the 
stiff manoeuvres of the royal guard. That does 
very well for a little while; but it is the same 
thing over and over again, and one soon tires of 
it. But when I lived here I never grew weary of 
anything.” 

“Not even of spinning worsted?” asked Adie, 
smiling mischievously. 

“ 0, that was long ago,” was Emma’s answer. 

By this time they had approached quite close to 
the spot where Felix was concealed by the shrub- 
bery. The beating of his heart became painful, 
and hardly to be borne. 

23 * 


270 THE neighbors’ children. 

“ Is it not wonderful, mother,” asked Pauline, 
“ that things are so little altered ? I can scarcely 
realize that nearly eight years have passed since 
we left Steinrode, all is so much the same. # It 
must he that kind Ehrenfried who has prepared all 
this for our reception ; hut why is he not here to 
welcome us? Nothing is wanting but ” 

“Felix, my lost son Felix!” sighed the mother, 
and she covered her streaming eyes with trembling 
hands. Convulsive sobs burst from her, in spite 
of her efforts for self-control. The sisters, cluster- 
ing round her, supported her in their sustaining 
arms ; and deeply grieved to see her thus shaken, 
essayed to speak words of comfort. But just then 
a rustling in the shrubbery attracted their atten- 
tion ; and not without some alarm they beheld a 
strange youth emerge from the recess, and ap- 
proach the group with form and features visibly 
agitated by some great emotion. But ere they 
had time to express surprise, or call for assistance, 
the stranger rushed forward and fell at the feet of 
the weeping mother. She looked up — the maternal 
heart keeps its own record — one glance was enough 
for recognition — the flashing glance, expressive of 
the joy of his soul, that spoke from the blue 
eyes of her never-forgotten boy, was all-sufficient. 

“ Felix! my own lost Felix ! whence hast thou 
come ! ” was all that she could utter ; and com- 
pletely overcome, she sunk fainting in the arms of 
her long-lost son. 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


271 


CHAPTER XII. 

“He meets the roughness of the middle waste, 

Far from the track and blest abode of men ; 

While round him night resistless closes fast; 

And every tempest, howling o’er his head, 

Renders the savage wilderness more wild.” 

It was a wild and stormy night ; fierce blasts 
from the north, and tempestuous drivings of rain 
swept round the lonely forest lodge in the Hartz 
mountains; the old trees groaned and creaked, 
tossing their half-denuded branches wildly, as if in 
despair for the unequal battle they were waging 
against the strife of elements. No living creature 
was to be seen abroad ; men and cattle had alike 
sought a place of shelter. Fires burned brightly 
in the dwellings, whose closed windows and doors 
were barred alike against intruders and the cold. 

The evening had long since deepened into night, 
when a pale, wayworn, and thinly clad wanderer 
knocked at the outer door of the forest house, and 
begged admittance. It was sometime before any 
movement was heard from within; at length a 
peasant maiden opened it, and cautiously looking 
out, asked him what he wanted, at the same time 
bidding him to make the least noise, as there was 
a sick person within. He shook the rain-drops 


272 THE neighbors’ children. 

from his thread-bare clothing, and humbly begged 
for shelter through the night. He had lost his way 
in the darkness, and had wandered through the 
forest until completely exhausted ; “ and surely,” 
he added, “ if you have any compassion for crea- 
tures of your own kind, you will not, in such a 
fearful night, refuse a place of shelter to one sick 
and astray.” 

The peasant girl grumbled something forth which 
sounded like “you had better go elsewhere; we 
do not keep an ale-house, in which to lodge stran- 
gers; the village is only three miles distant;” when 
her mutterings were interrupted by a young girl 
dressed in deep mourning ; who, opening an inner 
door, looked out, and enquired, in a soft and gentle 
tone, “Marie, did I not hear some one speaking?” 

“Oh! such a savage-looking man!” whispered 
Marie, in answer to her enquiry ; “ his face all 
covered with moustache and beard; he looks like a 
very suspicious character, and takes our nice forest 
lodge for an ale-house. I am sure he must he 
some vagabond soldier, for there are plenty of 
them running about. It is always dangerous to 
harbor them, and then to-night we are all alone ; 

for Ivar the huntsman has not returned from S 

where he went to sell skins. If he could not travel 
on account of the badness of the weather to-night, 
you may be sure this fellow means no good in 
running about in such a storm.” 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 273 

“ Forgive me, lady,” begged the stranger, in a 
tone of deep humility; “I mean you no harm. I 
have been wandering in this unknown region, 
without knowing one step of the way ; and it is 
the third night I have been unable to procure 
lodging under a roof — the damp earth of the forest 
has been my only bed, and I have been an invalid 
for some time. If you will only give me a bundle 
of straw in a corner, or even in the stable ” 

“Poor man!” interrupted the maiden; “we 
would be hard-hearted indeed, were we to refuse 
you what you ask, in such a frightful night as this. 
I cannot say ‘go farther.’ You are a stranger to 
us — you have heard we are alone — we two helpless 
women — and my mother is very ill ; come in, then, 
but be very quiet, as the least noise will make her 
worse. Marie shall get you some warm supper, 
and make up a straw bed for you ; more than this, 
I have not to offer.” 

The stranger thanked her, and would have fol- 
lowed the grumbling damsel to the kitchen ; but 
Melanie (for it is herself we recognise in the 
mourning garments -of an orphan), again spoke, 
and her voice — oh ! how unlike that of -the impe- 
rious Melanie of former years — fell sweet as sounds 
from Heaven on the ears of the wanderer. 

“ Come into this room, there is a good fire here. 
You are wet through, and look sick ; but be very 


274 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


quiet, for my mother is sleeping now, and every 
thing depends on her not being disturbed.” 

She gave him a chair in the corner, beside the 
brightly-blazing fire ; and placing herself before 
a spinning-wheel which stood beside a table on 
which a small iron lamp, such as was used by the 
commonest peasants, was burning, she began most 
industriously to spin. The stranger spread out his 
broad hands to meet the warmth of the cheerful 
blaze ; and, soon revived by the genial glow, began 
to look round the plain and scantily furnished 
room ; he noted but little of what it contained, for 
his gaze was riveted on the fair features of the 
maiden. She was tall, slender, and very pale ; an 
expression of deep sadness, not natural in one so 
young, rested on her face; her soft and glossy 
brown hair was parted over her white forehead, 
and simply braided in a comb. No ornament of 
beads, tinsel, or riband, such as the peasant 
maidens love to display, found a place on her 
person. She wore a coarse, but clean linen apron 
over her black dress, which was made of no fine 
material; and the stranger remarked that her 
whole figure and bearing wore a stamp of some- 
thing like nobility, although her hands, once so 
soft and delicate, were now as red and rough as 
those accustomed to the rudest work. 

At the least rustle or movement from the inner 
chamber, she would stop her wheel to listen, and 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 275 

steal cautiously into the sick room, to watch the 
feverish breathing of the sick slumberer. Marie 
brought in some warm supper for the stranger; 
half famished as he was, even this did not divert 
him from his scrutiny of the maiden. And as he 
hastily devoured the food, so grateful to one in his 
circumstances, with still increasing sympathy, for 
which himself could not account, he continued still 
to gaze on her, watching every movement and turn 
of feature with an interest almost painful to him- 
self, although he could divine no cause by which it 
was called forth. 

The hours wore away far into the night, yet she 
relaxed not her industry ; she spun as though life 
and death hung upon the completion of her task ; 
and when her weary eyelids fell, and she nodded 
over the wheel which she turned mechanically, she 
would rouse herself again, and spin only the more 
vigorously, as if to atone for the momentary inter- 
ruption. 

At length Marie entered with a lamp in her 
hand ; she, mentioning that she had prepared a 
bed for the stranger, asked her “if she did not 
know it was midnight, or had she no intention of 
going to bed at all that night ?” 

“I do not know that I can,” answered the in- 
terrogated; “my work is not done; and did you 
not tell me the yarn merchant would be here early 
in the morning ?” 


276 THE neighbors’ children. 

“Yes, I did say so, but what of that? You 
have not slept for two whole nights, and such 
doings will make you sick,” said the peasant girl. 
“ The yarn merchant will not care if you dis- 
appoint him ; for he will come again in a week or 
so, and you can give him the yarn then, if it is 
not ready now.” 

“You do not know all, Marie,” answered Melanie, 
with a slight blush ; “ he is to bring me something 

I sent for by him, when he went to S . to 

market — a little jar of raspberry jelly, and some 
other ^articles that my mother wanted. Ah ! she 
longed so much to have them ; but she does not 
know I sent. So you see, Marie, I must finish my 
task, so as to be able to pay for them ; and after 
that — 0 I will sleep gloriously!” 

“ What do you think your mother would say if 
she knew you had set up working for two whole 
nights to procure these things?” asked Marie ; “ the 
upshot of the thing is, you will be sick, and my 
mistress more troubled than all that you have done 
for her comfort is worth.” 

“ Hush Marie ! ” whispered Melanie, glan- 

cing at the stranger. “ You won’t tell mother, I 
know ; you would not spoil my pleasure so much, 
I am sure. And now, my good girl, go to bed ; 
rest is more needful for you than myself.” 

The damsel, finding she was not to be moved 
from her purpose, poured some oil in the now dimly 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 277 

burning lamp that stood on the table ; and having 
re-lighted her own, prepared to leave the room, 
first telling the stranger she would show him where 
to sleep, and bidding Melanie “good night.” 

“ Give the stranger the woollen comforter, 
Marie,” Melanie called after her ; “ the garret 
room is so cold — I wish we had a warm bed to 
give him.” 

“A thousand thanks for your kindness, lady,” 
said the rough-looking stranger, completely over- 
come by the gentleness of the maiden ; a quality, 
the exhibition of which he but seldom met with, 
directed to himself; he sighed deeply, as though 
oppressed with painful recollections, and following 
the servant girl, began to ascend the rude stairs 
which led to the garret chamber, through which 
the winds whistled and swept, as though they were 
keeping high holiday. 

“ Tell me,” said he to Marie, as they left the 
room, “ is this family so poor that the young girl 
has to spin all night in order to procure comfort 
for her sick mother? Has she no husband — has 
she no father? I mean, is the kind maiden an 
orphan ? ” 

“ She is,” was the answer ; “ her father died six 
months ago; and since then her mother, giving 
herself up to grief, has been more sickly than 
before. But it is not only grief now they have to 
bear, but trouble, too. The new forester is to 
24 


278 THE neighbors’ children. 

come in a few weeks to take possession of his place ; 
they will then have to leave this house and forest- 
wood that they love so well, for he has a large 
family, and they will want all the room that they 
can get. What Madame and Melanie will do, 
Heaven only knows ; where can they go ? I am 
distressed for them ; altogether empty-handed, and 
in a country where they know no one.” 

“ Has the mother no relatives — no son or 
brother?” was the question of the stranger. 

“0, yes indeed,” said Marie ; “she had a son. 
She has many a time told me the sad tale of his 
having been drowned. Yes, and in her sleep she 
will so often call out ‘ Eugene — Eugene!’ and then 
she will wake up and cry so bitterly — it breaks 
my heart to hear her.” 

“Eugene!” repeated the stranger, musingly; 
“and what is the name of the sick lady?” 

“I believe it is Grotz, or Grice, or Grosse, some 
such name,” replied Marie ; “ we never call her 
anything but Madame. They came here from 
Silesia ; and Melanie has often told me of a beauti- 
ful castle where they lived, which was burnt down. 
They belong to the nobility, I am sure ; and I am 
sure Madame may well grieve over the loss of 
her riches, for it is a fine thing to be rich ; but it 
is not for that so much as for her son she frets so 
constantly. Her grief is killing her, and she is 
wrong to give way to it so, for she ought to think 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 279 

how desolate her good daughter will be if she 
dies.” 

“ Grosse — Yon Grosse!” almost shrieked the 
stranger ; “ 0 what mysterious Providence has led 
me to this spot, only to have my conscience pierced 
with new and sharper stings !” 

He clasped his emaciated hands over his agitated 
face, and was silent ; but large tears trickled from 
between his fingers, and fell on his bushy beard. 
Marie was too much frightened to ask the cause 
of this new emotion ; and turning hastily from 
him, she fled down the narrow stairs, flinging the 
door after her with a force that shook the whole 
house. 

The stranger seated himself on the lowly couch 
that had been prepared for him ; and leaning his 
head on his hand, remained buried in painful 
reverie. He felt not the cold wind that swept 
through the open walls, and shook the rattling 
windows — he heard not the rain that pelted with- 
out, and heeded not the solemn crash which some- 
times boomed through the forest, telling that some 
giant oak, some moss-covered chronicler of ancient 
days and Druid rites, had fallen. The intensity 
of the emotion which swayed his heart w T as plainly 
visible in the perturbed features and agitated frame ; 
but after a time the painful expression subsided — 
some ray of comfort seemed to have streamed in 
upon his troubled soul ; for rising from his couch- 


280 THE neighbors’ children. 

ing posture, he had so long maintained, he folded 
his hands together, and prayed aloud : 

“ I understand what thou wouldst have me do, 
0 righteous, sin-forgiving God ! who, in thy mys- 
terious Providence, has led me through my wander- 
ing to this spot, to give me an opportunity to undo 
the wrong, the remembrance of which has caused 
me such bitter repentance, poisoning every moment 
of life’s enjoyment with its sting. Have mercy 
yet further upon me, Heavenly Father ; help me 
to find the son of whom I robbed this family* 
whilst the poor mother is still in life ; and then, 
if I can again fall on the place "where I concealed 
the treasure which is justly theirs, their deep pov- 
erty will be at an end.” 

He remained in a musing attitude for some time 
longer, as if resolving some plan; at length he 
rose, and tearing a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote 
a few lines upon it with a pencil, the dim light of 
the lamp which Marie, in her fright, had left 
behind, placed upon the floor of that rude chamber, 
scarcely serving to make objects discernible. 

Having finished a task which seemed to bestow 
comfort in its prosecution, he laid down on his 
hard pallet and slept soundly until the day began 
to break. He rose with the first ray ; and going 
down into the kitchen, he found the peasant girl 
had already kindled a fire, and was preparing a 
breakfast of warm milk and bread for him. In 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


281 


answer to his question, she told him Melanie was 
still sleeping, and her mother had seemed to 
grow better towards morning. With many thanks 
he ate heartily of the simple fare Marie had pro- 
vided ; but to her invitation to remain until Me- 
lanie should have arisen, he at once answered that 
he could not. 

“I have a long journey before me, and must go 
farther; for I have .important business to attend 
to, business which must on no account be delayed. 
But thank the kind young lady for me, and give 
her this note ; tell her good days are yet in store 
for her — and now farewell !” 

Even as he spoke these words he left the house ; 
and with the hasty pace of one bound on an errand 
of life or death, set off through the forest. The 
surprised maiden looked after him ; but although 
she had followed to the door, she saw but his re- 
treating form as it vanished between the tall trees 
of the wood, on which the gray light and sacred 
stillness of morning still was reposing. 

She did not, however, disturb Melanie to give 
her the stranger’s note, of which she could not 
read one w r ord herself ; and busying herself in 
household and dairy cares, and deeming it of little 
importance, she laid it on the kitchen table, where 
Melanie, on rising, found it. 

No note or written document ever found its way 
to that lonely house, for the inhabitants seemed 
24 ** 


282 THE neighbors’ children. 

shut out from human sympathy and human inter- 
course; and wondering what it could mean, she 
took it up and ran hastily over the illegible writing. 
A bright glow overspread her pallid face, and her 
features beamed with rays of sudden and pleasant 
emotion. * 

“ Mother, mother!” she exclaimed, forgetting 
all her prudence and acquired self-command in the 
excess of her joy, in the news she had to tell ; 
“ Eugene is living, and we shall see him again !” 

“ What is it you tell me?” cried the mother, 
starting up from her sick bed as lightly as if youth 
and health had returned in a moment ; “ did you 
say, Melanie, that my son was living ? 0, merciful 
Father ! how can I thank Thee !” 

With these words she fell back fainting on her 
pillow, while Melanie, alarmed at the effect of her 
own precipitancy, hung over her in agony, believ- 
ing her sudden announcement of the unexpected 
tidings to have killed her. 

She wept while she administered such simple 
remedies as were within her reach ; but Lady Yon 
Grosse remained in a most critical state until the 
evening, when Melanie was comforted by the arri- 
val of the physician, who declared her mother’s 
disorder had now reached the crisis ; and he 
thought that on awakening from the quiet sleep 
into which she was fallen, she would find herself 
greatly better. 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


283 


Three whole days elapsed before Melanie had 
much to encourage her ; but at length the wished- 
for change became visible; yet there was still 
a long time between this and recovery, during 
which period she sacrificed every feeling of self, 
and attended the beloved sufferer with the most 
anxious solicitude. From the suddenness with which 
the news was told, the shock had been very great. 
But still it proved the best medicine for Lady 
Yon Grosse. Once on the way of recovery, her 
convalescence was rapid ; she forgot her grief for 
the loss of her husband, in joy for the hoped-for 
restoration of her son. Weakness, poverty, the 
knowledge that they must soon leave their quiet 
forest home, without knowing where they were to 
go, gave her no uneasiness, no care ; she read 
again and again the half-effaced lines left by the 
unknown lodger for Melanie ; and there was com- 
fort for her in every letter. It ran as follows : — 
“ To Mademoiselle Melanie : — Your kindness has 
been shown to one altogether unworthy — one who 
has injured you almost past the power of restitu- 
tion. But I hope it is not yet too late ; perhaps I 
may be able to restore in part that of which I 
robbed you. I will try to do so. Know then that 
Eugene yet lives. I know his place of abode, and 
I will hasten to it, and bring him back to the arms 
from whence I tore him. Your servant has told 
me you would soon be obliged to leave the forest 


284 THE neighbors’ children. 

lodge. If you do so, go no further than the town 

of W ; leave your address at the council-house, 

and unless life should fail me, I will be the bearer 
of good tidings to you !” 

Many were the cogitations of both mother and 
daughter as to who the enigmatical stranger might 
be ; they could not read the riddle, and so gave it 
up — it was of little importance in comparison with 
the knowledge that Eugene was alive. 

The period which they so greatly dreaded now 
arrived, namely, that of vacating the forest lodge 
for the reception of the new warden and his family. 
He wrote to let them know he would arrive in the 
course of few days ; and they made their arrange- 
ments for leaving with less than half the pain they 
had anticipated. A new source of comfort had 
arisen ; and although the hope of fruition was 
still at a distance, like the stars that cheer in a 
cloudy night, there was sufficient radiance stream- 
ing from it to dispel the gloom that would have 
otherwise enveloped them. 

Their preparations were soon made, for they had 
little they could call their own. All their once 
numerous articles of luxury were diminished to a 
few pieces of such furniture as were indispensable 
for the commonest wants — some cooking utensils, 
and a scanty wardrobe — and with these, comprising 
all their earthly goods, Madame Yon Grosse 
betook herself to W , as had been enjoined on 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 285 

her by the stranger. Here she hired a small garret 
room ; and together with Melanie, resolved to earn 
a support by taking in work. 

With many tears the latter had bade adieu to 
the collier’s family, who had been her only friends 
in those days of discontent and loneliness that 
marked the first year of her residence in the Hartz 
forest. But sad as they were in the retrospect, 
they were yet greatly brighter than the prospect 
promised by the future, should Eugene fail to re- 
turn. She dared not think of such an alternative, 
for hope then would die out completely. 

The forest children, kind and attached as ever, 
had all prepared some farewell gift ; each one had 
something of which the sight must bring back re- 
membrance of the little foresters ; and Fritz, who 
was now a large boy, and still remained Melanie’s 
favorite, had put forth his best efforts, and made a 
very neat bird-cage, in which he placed a tame 
bullfinch, whose merry notes, he said, would each 
day serve to cheat her into the belief that she was 
still in the Ilartz forest. The collier’s wife, how- 
ever, gave her the best gift of all — the Bible which 
she had formerly lent her — the book whose light 
had served as a lamp to her own path, and from 
whose fount of healing Melanie had received her 
first drops of consolation, and from whence glad- 
ness had flowed in upon her mother’s darkened 
soul. Her heart swelled as she received the touch- 


286 THE neighbors’ children. 

ing gift, and most gratefully she accepted it, espe- 
cially as she knew her humble friend to possess 
another. 

The parting between them was sad, but not 
hopeless. Many were the days they had enjoyed 
with each other, those dwellers in that wild forest. 
Widely as the conventional forms of rank and edu- 
cation had separated them, here the claims of 
human sympathy demanded and prevailed, break- 
ing down all the strong barriers which pride and 
fancied superiority once had raised. They here 
learned that there is but one great human family, 
that all are more or less dependent on each other 
for mutual happiness ; and in recognizing the 
superior advancement of the collier and his wife 
in all things pertaining unto holiness, they were 
able to realize that “ God is no respecter of persons, 
but chooses the humble to confound the wise.” 

Grieving yet hoping from each other, they 
parted, believing that although they might never 
gaze on each other’s faces on earth, yet, as 
numbered among Christ’s ransomed, their inter- 
course should be renewed in heaven. And thoughts 
like these we well know soften the pang of separa- 
tion, although the grave utters no response to our 
“ farewell.” 

In more narrowed circumstances than ever, Me- 
lanie and her mother took possession of their garret 
chamber in W , plying their needles busily 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 287 

throughout the day, but always appropriating a 
portion of the evening to the perusal of God’s holy 
word. Gay and glancing equipages rolled along 
in the street below, bearing their thoughtless occu- 
pants to ball or theatre ; but our two friends, 
having experienced the change effected by renew- 
ing grace, saw them without envy, for they read 
‘‘those who truly seek the Lord, shall not want 
any good thing.” 

They wondered now that they had ever prized 
such fleeting vanities, so as to make their pursuit 
the whole end of a life bestowed for better pur- 
poses ; and were thankful that their eyes were 
opened to behold the right way — they experienced 
how hard it was to find the way to heaven through 
the intoxicating pleasures and excitements of the 
gay world — how greatly the stings of repentance 
exceeded the charms of folly or allurements of sin ; 
and now they blessed the hand of the Eternal 
Father, that had so sorely smitten only that it 
might save from death. 

A whole month passed away since the exciting 
evening of the stranger’s arrival at the forest 
lodge ; but we may say the impression of his visit 
faded not for a moment from the minds of either 
mother or daughter. Every knock at the street 
door, every quick step in the passage or on the 
stairs, caused the glow of expectation to color the 
wasted cheeks of the anxious mother, and made 


288 THE neighbors’ children. 

the sister start ; but the one as often faded back 
into the pallor of disappointment, and the other 
experienced the sickening pang of hope deferred, 
for neither Eugene nor the stranger came. 

To add to their disappointment, they found 
that, with the closest application to their sewing, 
they were only able to earn what was sufficient to 
procure them food. Unaccustomed to such work, 
they could not pursue it as rapidly as could those 
who had known nothing else ; and Melanie trembled 
with apprehension at the thought that when the 
day for payment of the rent came round, she had 
not one single penny laid away to meet it. This, 
however, she carefully concealed from her mother ; 
and when the Enemy assailed her with doubts of 
God’s goodness, and distrust of his promises, she 
resolutely applied to her book — the comforting gift 
of her humble friend in the Hartz forest ; and, 
like that poor but confiding Christian, she ever 
found comfort. The tide of unbelief was turned 
away, the light of hope illumined the pages as she 
read, “ Fear thou not, 0 Jacob, my servant, saith 
the Lord; be not dismayed, for I am with thee. 
I will make an end of all wickedness, but I will 
not make a full end of thee, but correct thee in a 
measure ; yet will I not leave thee wholly un- 
punished.” 

Her tears would flow more calmly when she 
dwelt on passages fraught with consolation to the 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 289 

sorrowing : “ Wait on the Lord, and do good ; 
verily thou shalt be fed ; for he will not chide con- 
tinually, nor keep his anger forever ; but he is full 
of compassion, and delighteth in mercy ; therefore 
commit thy way to God ; trust in him, and he shall 
give thee the desires of thine heart.” And though 
there seemed no earthly help on which she could 
lean in the trial that her heart so painfully fore- 
boded, she was able to contemplate the dark pros- 
pect without despair. 

But a few days more were wanting until the 
dreaded rent-day would arrive. Melanie had 
denied herself everything but that which was barely 
necessary; but her mother, who was still delicate, 
knew no want, so careful had been this good 
daughter to provide her with comforts which she 
had resolution enough to do without. 

Which of our readers could now recognize the 
selfish, affected, pleasure-loving Melanie, in this 
dutiful, self-denying daughter, whose Christian 
character was now fashioned from the example of 
one who “came to save the world that hated him,” 
and scoffed at goodness it could not comprehend. 
It is no overdrawn picture — the prayerful reading 
of the Scriptures, attended by the Spirit’s blessing, 
effects such changes every day; for not more 
wonderful than a second birth, to which our 
Saviour compared it, is the transforming influence 
of that Spirit’s operation on the heart. 

25 


290 THE neighbors’ children. 

As we have before stated, but a few days were 
now to intervene between the present time and 
that on which the landlord would expect to receive 
the rent for their garret. In spite of her faith, 
Melanie had felt sad all day, for at times human 
nature will prevail over grace ; yet she had worked 
very busily until the deepening twilight forced both 
herself and mother to lay aside the sewing on 
which they had been employed. 

Madame Yon Grosse sat by the window looking 
out at the stars, as one by one they began to 
“light up their watch-towers” in the sky, cheering 
the darkening heavens by their rays, even as the 
promises of God do the heart obscured by grief. 
Melanie was busy preparing their supper of meal 
porridge, and was stirring it so lustily that she 
scarcely heard a gentle knock at their room door. 
But she did hear it, and her heart beat nervously 
— was it the landlord? No light burned in the 
little chamber; but the moon, shining in with 
friendly look, made objects distinct enough for her 
to pursue her avocation. She advanced to open 
the door at whosoever bidding it might be, and a 
man, whose features she could not distinguish in 
the uncertain light, entered, and walked without a 
word into the middle of the room. Both females 
were silent, for they could not comprehend the 
meaning of this intrusion. But at length the 
stranger spoke. 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 291 

“ Mother — sister!” he exclaimed, “have you 
forgotten me ? Have you no welcome for the 
wanderer, or do you not care to have your Eugene 
back again ?” 

Such a meeting as this cannot be described — 
hearts keep their own record of such scenes, suffer- 
ing no stranger to intermeddle or to scan ; so we 
will pass over that sacred hour in silence, only say- 
ing that three happy hearts beat in perfect unison, 
as they made that hour of meeting a sacred one, 
for they knelt down before the God whom they 
now all served, to thank him that the lost, the 
long-believed dead son, was restored. It was like 
a resurrection from the grave ; and with the deep- 
est humility they bowed to the greatness of Him 
whose goodness and mercy had so exceeded their 
deserts, their fears, and even their hopes. 

At length they found time for question and 
answer — to tell to each other what had severally 
befallen. But Eugene could not help acknowledg- 
ing to himself, and with shame too, how much less 
of salutary fruit his trials had brought forth to 
him than his sister. He felt how greatly she ex- 
ceeded him in all that was noble and good. Know- 
ing what she had been, and contrasting it with 
what she now was, and remembering, too, all that 
Felix had tried to teach him, and how greatly 
severe discipline had improved the character of his 
friend, he was convinced there was something more 


292 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

than words at the bottom of the change he had 
witnessed in them all ; and felt that much was 
wanting in himself. 

Love now effected what hardship had failed to 
do. As he looked at his mother’s bowed form and 
wasted features, at Melanie’s rough swelled hands 
and anxious eyes, he formed a strong resolution 
— he would be patient, he would seek steady em- 
ployment, and he would work and lighten, if he 
could not remove, the burden which pressed so 
heavily on those dear ones; and this resolution, 
as he made it in a proper spirit, he kept through 
life. 

“But tell us, dear brother,” said Melanie, as 
they were talking over matters one evening, “ tell 
us, if you can, who was that stranger that begged 
a night’s lodging of us, while we lived at the forest 
lodge ? it was he who first gave us to hope that 
you were living.” 

“ Could you not recognize our old servant 
Amade ?” answered Eugene. 

“Not possible it was he !” replied the sister; 
“ why did he fear to tell us his name, or make him- 
self known?” 

“A guilty conscience makes men cowards. He 
had wronged us all too much to be happy in find- 
ing himself so unexpectedly in your presence, and 
obliged to ask a favor of you ; for he it was who 
decoyed me away. But I will tell you his story as 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 293 

he told it to me. About the time he entered into 
mother’s service, he fell into bad company, and 
turned gambler, loving play so much that he often 
lost in one hour all that he could earn in a month. 
At length he got into debt ; his companions pressed 
him for payment; and his mother, who was a 
widow and owned a small property, in her blind 
indulgence gave him her last penny. But even this 
was not enough ; he staked the little homestead, 
all she had to support her in her old age, and lost 
it. He was in despair ; he loved his mother, and 
could not bear the thought that she should be re- 
duced to beggary in her old age. But his love of 
gambling was not diminished. He left his home 
and country, and came to Germany, less with the 
hope of entering into service, than that of finding 
less skilful players than in France, from whom he 
might expect to win that which would make up, if 
not exceed, his losses. 

“ This plan did not succeed as he wished. He 
found the laws of chance, and the lovers of gamb- 
ling the same here as in the country he had left ; 
and having entered your service, dear mother, he 
bethought himself of another medium by which 
he might as suddenly become rich as that promised 
by a lucky throw of the dice. He staked all the 
money he earned ; he lost continually ; and in his 
despair, as he told me, there was no crime he 
25 * 


294 THE neighbors’ children. 

would have hesitated to commit, for his whole soul 
was given up to the desire of gain. 

44 The birth-day festival opened a glorious pros- 
pect to his avarice. He saw the valuable casket 
with its sparkling gems standing upon your dress- 
ing table; and determined, when opportunity 
offered, to appropriate some few of them to his 
own use. 

44 4 It can be no sin,’ thought he ; 4 the Countess 
has so many she can never miss them ; and my 
old mother is suffering. No ; I will do this for 
her sake, for she ruined herself to pay gambling 
debts for me !’ 

44 He waited on the company throughout the 
day; but it was not until the evening, when 
the guests, servants and all, left the castle to see 
the fireworks exhibited in the garden, that he 
could find a fitting time to carry out his plan. To 
the invitation of some one of his fellows to witness 
the spectacle, he replied that 4 fireworks were so 
common in his country, that the sight would be 
nothing new to him ; they might, therefore, all 
go, and he would stay behind and watch the castle.’ 
So far all succeeded. They went, and he was left ; 
he knew where the key of the castle was kept; 
and putting it in the lock, he turned it, and the 
castle treasure lay before his gloating eyes. 

44 4 Only one chain, or a few T rings,’ he said to 
himself, and he buried his hand among the gems ; 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 295 

but at that moment something fluttered behind 
him. The large chamber was but dimly lighted ; 
and he could not discern objects at the further end. 
But his hair rose upon end as he believed himself 
detected, for a hoarse voice, proceeding from one 
corner, cried out, 6 Villain ! Knave !’ 

“ He waited not to discover who was the accuser, 
but, catching up the open casket in his arms, he 
fled like one bereft of reason ; and he felt that he 
was pursued, for he heard the rushing of wings 
behind him as he ran. He reached the long corri- 
dor, and was proceeding to grope his way in dark- 
ness to the back stair; but all at once a bright 
light sprung up around him, making every object 
visible in its fearful glow. Horror-stricken, he 
turned to seek another outlet, still clasping the 
open casket in his arms, although he yet believed 
himself pursued by demons. It must have been 
our parrot, Melanie, that frightened him by its 
voice ; you remember we used to take great 
pleasure in hearing him repeat those words. 

“He sought the stairs which led to the front 
entrance, for the flames were now bursting forth 
from the chambers and galleries, where they had 
been so successfully kindled. On the first landing 
place he met a ferocious-looking man with matted 
hair, and whose expression of wild despair, as he 
brandished a flaming torch in his hand, applying 
it to everything combustible within his reach, 


296 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


served to picture to his now heated fancy one of 
the lost spirits escaped for a season from the pit, 
and come to spread destruction and ruin over the 
scene that, a few hours before, was so fair. 

“ ‘ Come along ! come along !’ he cried in the 
tone of a mocking fiend ; 4 help me to kindle up 
the fires, that they may all warm themselves, 
you and me too ! it is nice to be warm !’ and the 
maniac laugh with which he concluded his speech 
rang out above the now crackling flames ; and in 
it Amade recognized the insane prisoner Dietrich. 
Scarce knowing what he did, and dreading that 
the peasant would destroy him, groping in the 
casket, he grasped a handful of jewels from the 
store, and handing them to him, bade him take 
them as some requital for his wrongs. Dietrich 
received them with great indifference, thrusting 
them into his vest pocket. Amade was only too 
much rejoiced when the former told him that all 
he desired in return for his keeping silence in 
reference to the loss of the casket, would be to give 
him a hiding-place for a few days, as he was certain 
he would be pursued. He directed him, therefore, 
without hesitation, to the cottage where his mother 
now lived ; and knowing Dietrich’s proverbial 
honesty, he committed the casket to his charge, 
and sent him at once on his way. 

“ No suspicion was attached to Amade, for he 
Was among the most busy in extinguishing the 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 297 

flames, and seeking for the lost treasure. In the 
meantime, whilst the consequent hustle was going 
forward, the prisoner, with his costly charge, 
reached the desired asylum, where both himself 
and it were successfully hidden, although justice 
left no means untried to find out whither he had 
fled. 

“ His revenge, however, was hut half satisfied ; 
and having Amade now completely in his power, 
he next demanded of him the betrayal of myself 
into his hands. I have already told you how this 
was done. You remember, mother, Amade’s term 
of service was nearly expired at that time ; he 
greatly dreaded that Dietrich would return ; and 
anxious to secure his ill-gotten gain in a safer place 
than it was at present, he left you; and telling 
every one he was going back to France, he thus 
put them completely off the track of his where- 
abouts, if any suspicion should ever arise. But 
instead of this, he withdrew into a distant duchy 
on the borders of Poland, where he purchased a 
small inn, together with a spot of farming-land. 

At first all went well — his customers were 
pleased, and his cattle throve ; his means were 
increased ; he laid by a smart sum of money, still 
depositing it in the casket, where yet many of the 
jewels remained. But his old passion for play 
revived ; and the more riches he acquired, the more 
avaricious he became. And not contented to gain 


298 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


wealth by fair play or honest endeavors, he sought 
the quicker method to obtain, which he so greatly 
desired, by fraud. He procured loaded dice, 
played falsely, and was detected; gens-d’armes, 
sent by the provincial authorities, appeared sud- 
denly, and surrounded his house ; but Amade suc- 
ceeded in making his escape, bearing with him the 
treasured casket concealed within the folds of his 
cloak. 

“Not daring to seek the habitations of men, he 
wandered in unfrequented districts ; and it was 
when forced by hunger he entered at times into 
some obscure village, in order to purchase coarse 
food, which he devoured in some mountain cavern, 
where he had spread the couch of leaves that 
served him for a bed. It was on returning from 
such an errand on a stormy evening that, mistaking 
the path that led to his cavern home, he strayed 
into a different part of the forest. The light of 
torches glimmered from among the trees ; and to 
the voice of the tempest were added the oaths and 
imprecations of men. His pursuers were on the 
track. He turned to flee he knew not whither ; 
but his progress was considerably hindered by the 
weight of the casket, from which he never parted 
by night or day. 

“ But what was gold now, when his life was at 
stake — valueless as the earth on which he trod ; 
and throwing it among a heap of loose stones that 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 299 

lay in a little hollow, where the ground was covered 
with a thick undergrowth, he rolled some of the 
largest over the opening, so as effectually to con- 
ceal it; and creeping on his hands and feet for 
some distance through the spiky shrubbery, not 
heeding the wounds made on his hands and face, 
he succeeded in escaping the observation of his 
pursuers. At length the lights ceased to stream 
on the deep darkness of the wood, and the voices 
died away in the distance ; and although at another 
time the surrounding horrors would have spoken 
only of death and danger to the alarmed culprit, 
how cheering now was the sombre shadow — what 
soothing came in the unaccompanied voice of the 
still raging tempests ! 

“ He arose to his feet and looked round ; the 
trees, much less dense, assured him to be near the 
end of the forest ; and when the morning dawned, 
clear, calm, and beautiful, he found himself at its 
edge. Smoke issuing from the distant cottages 
told of man and domestic comforts ; but the out- 
cast dared not seek sympathy in the one, or parti- 
cipation in the other. 

“ Filled with sad and repentant thoughts, as he 
stood gazing upon the scene he feared to approach, 
he was startled by a loud scream. He turned in 
dismay ; and close beside him was a little girl, who, 
with a basket on her arm, had come thus early to 
the forest to pick berries, which grew in abundance 


300 THE neighbors’ children. 

there. He enquired what it was had frightened 
her ; but without making any answer, she screamed 
but the louder as he tried to drive away her fears ; 
and when he attempted to lead her by the hand, 
fled with the speed of the lapwing, occasionally 
looking back to see if the frightful-looking man, 
covered with blood and dust, was following. Her 
cries awakened the attention of some wood-cutters 
who were at work near the spot. They hastened 
to see what was the matter ; and without waiting 
to question the stranger, whose appearance was so 
very suspicious, they overpowered him at once ; 
and putting him in a cart, carried him to the nearest 
market-town, where he was brought before a magis- 
trate to answer for himself. 

“ Among the crowd collected to witness his 
examination, were one or two persons who had 
known him in his public capacity. They gave evi- 
dence of his being not only a notorious gambler, 
but one who played falsely ; the trial was short, 
and he was sent to the house of correction. At 
this time he learned from an old neighbor, who 
compassionately visited him in his prison, that his 
house and all the goods had been seized upon by 
his creditors, and sold; his mother dead — died 
from hardship, poverty, and grief ; and the worm 
of remorse, preying upon the heart of the unhappy 
son, he wished for the death which he yet feared to 
meet. 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 301 

“ It was now that, left to solitude and reflection, 
and hating the life which he feared to take, for 
although he had formerly mocked at all religion, 
and said within his heart ‘there is no God,’ the 
conviction of an all-prevailing Power so forced 
itself upon his tortured mind, that, though sorely 
tempted, he could not determine to rush uncalled 
into the dread presence of the Mig&ty Judge. He 
had read the words, £ It is appointed to all men 
once to die, and after that the judgment and the 
sentence echoed fearfully into the inmost recess of 
his soul. He thought over every wicked act of his 
past life — the space so mercifully given to man 
for the preparation of a holier and more blissful 
state — of the vile ingratitude he had shown to his 
mother, who, in her blind affection,' had sacrificed 
her earthly all for his sake — of the sorrow and 
wrong he had wrought on the Yon Grosse family, 
who had received and trusted him when he was a 
fugitive, driven from his early home and from the 
society of his fellow men. Whilst with that family 
he was received into the friendly castle of Stein- 
rode ; and there, where Piety sprinkled the sweet 
dews daily from her cup of consolation, some few 
drops had reached him ; and though at the time 
considered of no account, they came now in his 
hours of affliction like soothing balm to the 
diseased. ‘ Come unto me, all ye that are weary 
and heavy laden, and I will give you rest,’ were 
26 


302 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


words that he could not but remember; and the 
sweet assurance that there was no sin of dye so 
deep that it could not be washed away in the all- 
atoning blood of Him, the pure and perfect, who, 
having suffered and died, ‘ had passed into the 
heavens,’ where, as man’s Advocate, he ever lives 
to make intercession for all who come to God 
through Him. 

“ Whilst thoughts of this kind, mingled with 
some of more worldly character, were revolving in 
his mind, a felon was brought in to share the cell 
he had heretofore occupied alone. His loose dress, 
pointed cap, and flowing beard, at once proclaimed 
him a Jew ; and in the natural course of communi- 
cation which ensued between them, they soon 
became quite confidential in their intercourse. 
Amade, in his distress of mind, made a full dis- 
closure of all his guilt to Simon (for my old master 
had got to the right place at last), perhaps in hopes 
that one so much older than himself could help 
him plan some way of escape, or maybe that the 
confession served to lighten his own mind. 

“ The Jew, it seemed, had made no effort to 
find out where the parents of Felix and myself 
were gone, but engaged in new thefts, which 
promised to be more speedily profitable than such 
a search, and the police had at last been able to 
detect and secure him. 

“ As Amade, in the nights when he could not 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


303 


sleep, related his story concerning the robbery of 
the rich casket, and abduction of myself and 
Felix, not withholding our own and family names, 
the hardened Simon laughed at him, calling him 
‘ a whining fool and then, by -way of boasting of 
superior strength of mind, vaunted of his own 
deeds, together with the dexterity by which he had 
so long eluded the vigilance of the police; and 
concluded by declaring that he could tell his 
‘chicken hearted companion all about me, and 
where I was at that time.’ He also recounted, in 
a triumphant manner, how he had got me into his 
power, and what pains he had taken to make me 
as accomplished a thief as himself. ‘ I wanted a 
companion,’ said he, ‘for I am getting old and 
stiff, and the boy was tall and slender, and could 
accomplish much that a large man could not.’ In 
short, mother — you must spare me the shameful 
remembrance. Let me only say that Felix was 
the good angel sent from heaven to save me 
from becoming like Simon and Amade, who, with 
many others, chose to gather gain in forbidden 
paths, rather than earn their bread as God had 
commanded man to do, by the sweat of his brow. 

“ At last Amade was released from prison ; and 
as his repentance was really sincere, he resolved 
to seek an humble service, whereby he might gain 
an honest living. But he soon found that a 
tarnished reputation is not easily retrieved. No 


304 THE neighbors’ children. 

man wished to employ the liberated convict; no 
one pitied his destitution ; no one believed in his 
intended reformation. 

“ Hunger and want at this time almost com- 
pelled him to pilfer, in order to supply their press- 
ing demands ; but true to the resolution he had 
formed, he yielded not ; for it was his fixed pur- 
pose to be honest. Some few little turns he found 
to do, and for which bread, barely sufficient to 
keep him from starving, was given ; but anything 
like regular employment, for which he might 
demand regular wages, was out of the question. 
At length a good-natured farmer took him into his 
barn to thresh. This was hard work for him, who 
never wielded a flail in his life ; and now for little 
more than the rough food he ate, he labored six- 
teen hours out of the twenty-four ; but so great 
was the change that had come over him, he per- 
formed his task without a murmur. He thanked 
God for the asylum he had found ; but, alas ! it 
was not long until he had to seek another. 

“ His fellow-laborers found out by some means 
that he had served his time in the house of correc- 
tion, and utterly refused to work in company with 
one who had been so publicly disgraced. The 
farmer pitied him, and remonstrated with his 
men ; but it was of no avail. They insisted that 
Amade or themselves must be parted with. The 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 305 

master had no alternative, and he was obliged to 
dismiss him. 

“ Almost despairing, he once more resumed his 
wanderings ; and as he strayed from place to place, 
his heart again grew harder under the cruelty and 
unfeeling treatment he met with from his fellow 
men. He felt himself powerfully tempted to go 
back to the ways of wickedness, palliating the sin 
by saying to himself, ‘ If I steal, it shall only be a 
few farthings, which nobody will miss, or else some 
food to keep me from starving.’ 

“ No opportunity, however, occurred to put his 
purpose into execution, until on the evening when, 
wandering through the region of the Hartz moun- 
tains, he came upon the lonely forest lodge, which, 
lying so remote, so shut out from all other habita- 
tions, seemed almost to invite to depredation. But 
heaven spared him the sin ; here, for the first time, 
he was met by gentleness and compassion, his heart 
was again softened ; he gave up the unrighteous 
thoughts that were revolving in his soul, and he 
determined to beg rather than steal. 

“ When he heard from the servant girl the name 
of the family who had so unhesitatingly sheltered 
him in that inclement night — when the circum- 
stances she recounted assured him that the inmates 
of the cottage were those he had so deeply wronged, 
repentance once more became busy at his heart, 
and he resolved, as far as lay in his power, to 
26 * 


306 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


endeavor to redress that wrong. He sought me 
out almost immediately ; and calling my master 
to one side, had a long and private conversation 
with him; when it was ended the latter, looking 
much troubled, bade me get ready, for I might set 
out at once for home, at the same time offering to 
lend me money for the journey. 

“ It was on the same night that Amade, whom I 
could scarcely recognize as our .former footman, 
so changed was his whole appearance, occupying 
the same chamber with myself, told me the tale I 
have related to you. What arguments he used 
to pursuade my stern master, I know not ; and I 
could not ask him, for when I awoke in the morn- 
ing he was gone, and no one knew at what hour 
he had departed. It made little matter to one so 
happy as I now was, in my haste to leave my 
Russian home. I could scarcely wait to eat some 
breakfast, but tied up my few articles of clothing 
in a bundle, and threw myself into the mail 
waggon, which brought me safe to this place and 
to you, from whom I hope never again to be sepa- 
rated. 

“ I am determined to do my best, dear mother, 
to make your declining years pass in comfort, and 
to share Melanie’s burden, be it what it may. In 
the first place, I will seek a mechanic, for whom I 
can do journey-work by day, and in the evenings 
I will copy documents for a lawyer, with whom I 


THE NEIGHBORS* CHILDREN. 307 

made acquaintance as I travelled hither. I have 
been wicked, thoughtless, ah ! and in days past, 
cruel and disobedient ; but Adversity has taught 
me salutary things ; and I trust God will give me 
strength to maintain my good resolutions.” 

Eugene had finished his narrative, and for 
some moments the little party remained silent; 
but at length Lady Yon Grosse rose from her 
chair, and folding both her children to her heart, 
blessed God for the wonderful Providence that had 
so worked together for the good of all ; but above 
all, she prayed that her returned son might be 
strengthened in the pursuit of every good work, 
and kept secure from the allurements of vice, and 
above the temptations of the world. 

Although Eugene’s money, by the expenses of 
his journey, had melted away to his last penny, 
and he had not the most distant idea of finding 
his family in such straitened circumstances, yet 
on this night he was happier than ever he had been 
in all his life before. He enjoyed, in anticipation, 
the pleasure he should have in being the support 
and stay of his mother and sister; and slept 
soundly, although he had no better bed than the 
hard floor, on which Melanie had spread a few 
blankets, to which she added her own pilow, choos- 
ing to do without it herself, for the pleasure of 
giving it to her brother. 

Who ought ever to despond while he knows 


308 THE neighbors’ children. 

that “ God is in heaven,” watching over all for 
good? In the evening, when Melanie and her 
mother gazed on the sunset glow, it was with 
hearts sad in the prospect of coming difficulties ; 
but a happy night was theirs ; and when the morn- 
ing shed her light once more upon the earth, the 
sun poured forth his early beams upon bright 
countenances, and as grateful beings as any that 
existed in the whole compass of the great city of 
W . 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


309 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ They spoke of many a banished scene, 

Of what they once had thought and said, 

Of what had been and might have been, 

And who was changed, and who was dead.” 

Pleasant indeed were the days passed by the 
guests at Steinrode ; but time will move onward, 
and duty will call imperatively ; and so in this 
case. The days flew like hours, for they were 
crowned with delight ; but sooner than was wished 
by any of the party, the Baron began to speak of 
returning to the capital, where the affairs of his 
office at court demanded his presence, and where 
Herman had been left behind to pursue his college 
studies. 

Mr. Norman had, as yet, given no hint of his 
meditated plan of the disposal of Steinrode to its 
former owner; but when Baron Lindenburg de- 
clared that they must set out for home on the 
morrow, the eccentric old man took him by the 
hand, and shaking it warmly, said, “ You have been 
disappointed in your wish to purchase a suitable 
property in this neighborhood, and I doubt whether 
you can anywhere find one that would please you 
so well as this old castle. Stay where you are 


310 THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 

then, my good friend ; I see it is hard for you all 
to think of leaving Steinrode; and for yourself, 
I know you would rather again be the possessor of 
your ancestral domain, than to fill the most exalted 
post your king can offer you. Lady Lindenburg 
will get well here, since all painful remembrance is 
removed, and Steinrode be to you all the pleasant 
home of other days. I have loved it, too ; but I 
am of a restless nature — I cannot remain long in 
any place. Besides, I love a little bustle, and I 
long to mingle with the world again ; and I have 
for some time been planning a voyage to America, 
where I propose taking my good Ehrenfried with 
me, as he seems as much filled with the love of 
travel as myself. Steinrode, therefore, if you wish 
it, shall be given back into your hands fettered 
with this condition only, that when weary of 
wandering, I may feel the need of rest, you will 
receive me for a short space as your guest, and my 
young companion — will you not find a place for 
him too? My trunks are already packed,” he 
continued, laughing, as the Baron endeavored to 
express the grateful astonishment he felt at this 
unexpected fulfilment of the heart’s wish he had 
not dared to utter. “ Ehrenfried and myself set 
out in the morning, and you must all stay here, if 
it is only to see the harvest gathered, and the 
flowers that, hid in their beds by thousands, are 
yet to bloom before the withering winds of Autumn 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 811 

come. I am a queer old man, but I love, in pur- 
suing my own notions, to make others happy.” 

New joy was diffused among the Lindenburg 
family, when the father communicated the intelli- 
gence that Steinrode was once more to be their 
home. That of the parents was calm and quiet ; 
but the children — they were almost boisterous. 
Felix would have felt but half satisfied at leaving 
the old castle ; but now he saw himself prospect- 
ively the farmer he had ever wished to be, tilling 
the old acres over which his ancestors had trodden, 
and filling, as his father had done, the place of 
landlord and benefactor to those born on the soil, 
after he had passed away like the others, whose 
faded portraits in the old hall alone reminded the 
gazer that they had been. 

The maidens — did they not long for the scenes, 
the bright glittering court scenes, left behind in 
the capital ? 0 no ; all was bright and pleasant 

there ; they had many valued friends, many sweet 
associations springing from the intercourse, the 
employments and pleasures of a city life ; but 
Steinrode — dear Steinrode — it was the sweetest 
place in the world. And now it was particularly 
so — the glorious summer sunlight, the cool gray 
shadows of the forest, the thousands of bright 
colored flowers that clothed the hillsides, the yel- 
low waving grain, the songs of birds in the grove, 
and sweet odours from the garden — who would be 


312 THE neighbors’ children. 

willing to exchange these for the dull, hot brick 
walls of a city ? Ehrenfried himself, though burn- 
ing with desire to visit those wondrous western 
realms of which he had read so much, could not 
leave it without bitter regret. 

Eelix and himself were to exchange letters 
regularly, and the latter was to make large collec- 
tions of the plants and insects found in that tropi- 
cal clime, which he was to send from time to time 
to his friend, whose long servitude in Poland had 
not in the least abated his love of Natural History. 

The day came only too soon when Mr. Norman 
and the peasant boy were to leave Steinrode, per- 
haps forever; and all were sad and melancholy at 
the parting. With heavy hearts they listened to 
the clang of the post-horn that called the travellers 
from that quiet home ; and some tears fell as the 
rumbling mail-coach vanished in the distance, and 
bore with it the friends they had learned to love. 

Silent and sad, they were still seated at the 
breakfast table, which was spread in the old parlor, 
whose wide open windows permitted all sounds 
from without to enter, when the rolling of a 
carriage over the gravelled road in the front avenue 
roused them from their musing, and awakened their 
attention. They rose at once and looked out, 
wondering who those early visitors could be, and 
their eyes were greeted and their hearts gladdened 
by seeing the placid face of aunt Angela, and 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 313 

hearing the hearty cheer which Herman gave as 
he thrust his smiling face through the open blinds 
of the carriage. 

Oh ! the meeting between the two brothers, who 
could describe it? No one; for no one can enter 
into the hidden depths of the heart — they could 
not have explained their emotions ; and we will 
only say that they lay in each other’s arms, whilst 
heart beat to heart ; and answered each other in 
pulses that spoke to the spirit, but found no 
utterance in words. There was joy this day 
at Steinrode; such joy as to human beings is 
seldom permitted, whose remembrance no after 
sorrow can ever obliterate, and whose impression 
never altogether fades, even in the turmoil of 
busy life; for could brothers, like these thus re- 
united, forget ? how could anything separate hearts 
thus joined? 

Much of the former mode of life was resumed 
at Steinrode ; occupations in the morning, and the 
family meetings round the fire in the winter even- 
ings. Lady Lindenburg daily improved in health 
since she had found her long-mourned son again ; 
and with great gratitude to heaven, she saw that 
Adversity had been sanctified to him. She re- 
sumed her house-keeping duties by degrees; but 
they were not hard, for old mother Spiller, still fresh 
and hale, remained at the head of the kitchen 

27 


314 THE neighbors’ children. 

concerns, and kept Dolly and the fat cook in due 
bounds. 

Greatly were they all delighted to have Felix 
restored ; and although Dolly would have been 
better pleased had he recounted adventures in 
Fairyland rather than his hardships in Poland, she 
bore her disappointment quite rationally, notwith- 
standing the cook often reminded her of all that had 
been said at the kitchen fire, on the night of his 
mysterious disappearance. Mother Spiller, as she 
laid her withered hand on his bright clustering 
locks, and looked into the laughing blue eyes she 
had so loved in childhood, could scarcely believe 
that the tall youth, with firmness and character 
written on every feature, proclaiming him a man 
in spirit, while the downy cheek and insipient 
moustache spoke him yet a boy in years, was the 
same she had nursed ; but she found that, though 
hardened to battle with the storms of life, he had 
lost none of his natural amiability ; and that union 
of gentleness with determination in the cause of 
right, ever so beautiful in their blending, detracted 
nothing from the character of her favorite, who, 
in a short time, became a greater one with her than 
ever. 

Aunt Angela was the same as ever ; the advance 
of years had infused no sourness into the disposi- 
tion of her who was now a determined old maid. 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. ' 315 

Crow’s-feet lurked around the corners of her once 
beautiful eyes, and threads of silver shone among 
her dark locks ; but she covered the one with a 
plain cap, and the winning smile that played on 
every feature of her pleasant face prevented all 
notice of the other. Ready as ever to promote 
the happiness of those around her, she still was 
projecting plans for the improvement or amuse- 
ment of those she loved so well ; and entered, if 
not into the feelings of youth, at least into the 
participation of it, as it was called forth by her 
own efforts in the domestic circle. 

“ Tell me, girls,” said she one evening, when 
they were all gathered around her except Pauline, 
“ tell me, are you not sorry to have missed the 
great party given by the Princess Sulkony ? You 
have lost all that by coming to the country ; all 
the w T orld was there, Emma.” 

“ Where you there, aunty ?” asked Pauline, who 
just looked in for a moment. 

“No indeed; what business would a plain old 
maid like myself have there ?” was her reply ; and 
then, in a jesting manner, described the affair as 
she had heard of it from some of the guests who 
were present. The dresses worn were splendid ; the 
ladies blazed with jewels; the arrangements — 
nothing was ever seen in the capital to equal them ; 
it was all fairy-like, a scene of perfect enchantment. 


316 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


Adie made no other answer than by laughingly 
jingling her mother’s bunch of keys close to her 
good aunt’s ear, much to the annoyance of the 
auricular nerves ; and Emma, flying to the open 
piano, after playing a short symphony, struck into 
a song, half lively, half serious. 

Who cares for the town, when the country so fair, 

With its cool shady woods, and soft summer air ; 

Where flowers on the hillsides more brilliantly glance, 
Than fair ladies robed for the court or the dance. 

Where the violet sends forth her sweet breath on the 
breeze, 

And voices are whispering among the green trees ; 
Mysterious and holy they fall on the ear, 

Like music that swells from a loftier sphere ; 

And speaks of a world where in beauty arrayed 
No blossom e’re withers, no flowers e’er fade. 

0 give me the country, with valley and plain, 

With rude mountain crest and soft waving grain ; 

Which speak to the heart while charming the eye, 

Of the goodness that still every want will supply. 

When o’er the gay city still evening shall fall, 

And fair dames issue forth enrobed for the ball, 

The court, or the revel — I would not be there, 

For here in our home ’tis the season for prayer. 

And listening angels that bend from the skies, 

Smile on us while watching our pure sacrifice. 

Pauline, who had too much business on her 
hands to care for the princess or her party, waited 
until her sister had finished her ballad, (for although 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


319 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“ His purpose is not to appear just, but to he.” 

Leaving the Steinrode family in the possession 
of as much happiness as ever falls to the lot of 
man, we look once more into the attic chamber 
which the Lady Von Grosse still occupied with her 

children, in the great city of W . The Easter 

holidays had come ; and never had a more beauti- 
ful morning risen upon the earth than that which 
heralded the Monday of Whitsuntide. The city 
bells rung <^gt a merry peal, and cheerful tones of 
gleeful children echoed from the street — all told 
of a rejoicing world ; but the sleepers in that 
low-roofed room awoke not. The bullfinch in his 
cage, which hung above Melanie’s bed, twittered 
and piped his loudest ; but she did not awake until 
in its fluttering he shook down some hemp-seed 
into her face, and then, astonished at her own 
slothfulness, in an instant she w r as up. 

Dressing hastily, but quietly, for fear of dis- 
turbing her mother, she first performed her devo- 
tional duties, which now she never forgot; and 
next began her preparations for the family break- 
fast, a task which it was always her’s to execute. 


320 THE neighbors’ children. 

But as she left the room to get something she 
wanted, she perceived the door of the outer room 
where Eugene slept was open, and himself absent. 
Astonished at this movement, she was also disap- 
pointed ; for she had prepared a little surprise for 
both, and she felt that if he was not at the table 
her plan would but half succeed. 

Both her mother and Eugene were particularly 
fond of coffee ; and as that was a luxury in which 
they seldom allowed themselves to indulge, she 
had made some sacrifices, in order to procure a 
small quantity, whereby to prepare a sort of feast 
on this high holiday ; and was now cooking it, 
instead of their usual milk porridge, in another 
part of the house. 

All was ready before her mother awoke; her 
little table was spread with a nice white cloth, cups 
were placed on a waiter, and the sugar basin was 
filled with sugar. 

“ Melanie, my dear,” said the astonished mother, 
when on rising she saw the preparation for what 
they now considered a sumptuous breakfast, “where 
did you get all this? Eugene told me his master 
had not paid him for his last week’s work, and I 
hope you have not gone in debt to provide us with 
a Whitsun feast.” 

“No indeed, mother,” was the reply, “I did 
not do any such foolish thing. I took a simpler, 
and I hope, a wiser plan. I have so much hair 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 317 

not present at the beginning, she had come in in 
time to hear the latter part of the description,) and 
now coming up to her aunt, she opened her apron, 
which, until this moment, she had held gathered in 
a bundle before, and displayed the treasure it con- 
tained. A dozen of black and yellow chickens, 
not more than a day old, set up a chirping as they 
met the light, and peals of laughter burst from all. 

“ That will do, little sister,” cried Felix ; “you 
are our little Pauline still, though grown so tall ; 
but what are you going to do with your chickens ? 
have you the charge of the poultry-yard?” 

“Not altogether,” said she, laughing; “you 
see I can now not only bear to be laughed at, but 
I can laugh with you, even when myself is the 
subject ; but I have brought my chickens here to 
have them named. I want the largest called 
Felix. But indeed, dear aunty, I have no time 
to grieve over the loss of the party. Who would 
be shut up in a ball-room, though ever so much 
decorated, when they can run over the fields, 
where the fresh flowers are growing, and smell 
so sweet? And in our tulip-beds there are a more 
richly dressed company than that of the Princess 
Sulkony ; and as for dancing, my chickens jump 
about and are a thousand times more active than 

the best of them, not excepting Major D , in 

his nice white kid gloves !” 

27 * 


318 THE neighbors’ children. 

“ Indeed!” said her aunt in mock astonishment; 
you must have learned such renunciation of what 
you cannot obtain from Gellert’s Fables, that you 
so loved when a child — something like the fox 
when he could not reach the grapes.” 

And the happy maidens, full of the gleesome 
spirit of youth, entwined their arms around the 
neck of their beloved aunt, and half smothered 
her, as they stopped her jesting mouth with kisses. 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 321 

that it gives me a great deal of trouble, and makes 
me break so many combs. One day, not long 
since, when I went into the hair-dresser’s shop to 
buy one, he noticed the great quantity, and re- 
marked that I could spare a good handful, and not 
miss it ; besides I could get a good price for it. 
So I cut out some locks and took them to him, and 
he paid me willingly and well ; and now I have not 
half so much trouble to keep it in order. It often 
took up more time than I had to spare, and I am 
sure, mother, you can’t miss it ; I have one trouble 
less, and one pleasure more, since I am able to get 
up a little feast for you and Eugene on this 
glorious holiday.” 

The mother was about to answer, but at that 
moment the room door opened, and Eugene entered, 
bearing a packet in one hand, and a bunch of 
odorous spring flowers in the other. 

“ There, Melanie,” said he, as he handed her 
.the bouquet, “ that is for you — you love flowers so 
well, and are kept so closely atf work in this dull 
chamber, that you see nothing of gardens or 
flowers, except it may be now and then through 
some open gates; so that is your gift. Here, 
mother, is something of a different sort for you.” 
Laughing as he spoke, he opened the paper parcel, 
and a large brown Streitzel koclie , freshly baked 
and odorous with spices, lay within. “ I know you 
loved it, mother ; and as for myself, I often thought 


822 THE neighbors’ children. 

of the Hausdorff Streitzels when I was munching 
gritz in Poland. But I must say, I believe the 
gritz did me more good than the cakes at the castle. 

“ My dear good children,” said Lady Yon 
Grosse, “ I do not regret the luxuries of Hausdorlf 
now ; heaven has granted me purer, better bless- 
ings in this my poverty than I ever knew there. The 
Holy Spirit, whose office is love, has operated 
upon your hearts ; and since I have found accep- 
tance with God, and receive daily testimony that 
you, my beloved ones, are likewise of the house- 
hold of faith, I want nothing more. I am super- 
abundantly rich — the measure of my happiness is 
full and overflowing.” 

Eugene kissed the hand that rested caressingly 
on his sunburnt brow; and then turning to his 
sister, said, in a tone of half command and half 
entreaty, “ Come, Melanie, you are house-keeper, 
cook, and everything else. Let us have breakfast, 
I am sure it will be a glorious one, for I think 
from the signs on the table you have something 
very good behind the scenes. Whether yourself 
or some good fairy has provided it, bring it forth 
now, for I have a great appetite for this holiday 
meal. Give me your cup, mother, I will pour out 
(you know Mademoiselle Adele used to say that 
was the French fashion,) while Melanie cuts the 
cake.” 

But, notwithstanding his great appetite, Eugene 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 323 

had yet to wait for his breakfast ; for ere Melanie 
could place the odorous beverage on the table, a 
knock was heard at the door. Eugene rose to open 
it, and zv man, whom they knew to be a letter 
carrier, handed him a letter and parcel. But now an 
unforeseen difficulty arose ; the postman must have 
his fee, and there was not one farthing in the 
house. Eugene groped in one pocket after another, 
but all were alike empty. He blushed to the 
temples while the man stood waiting ; his master 
owed him a week’s wages, and had promised to pay 
him at noon, but what of that — he wanted it now. 
Melanie cast down her eyes to the floor ; she had 
nothing left from her holiday purchases. 

“ Who would have thought of us getting a letter, 
we have no friends,” she said to herself ; ah ! I am 
afraid I have been too extravagant, for maybe the 
sugar was too great a luxury for us, now that we 
are so poor.” 

“ I can come again,” said the good-natured post- 
man, as he remarked the embarrassment of the 
family ; “ I know this young man to be the same 
who held back the wild horse of the Count Yon 
Holm, when he was about to tread on my child, 
whom he had thrown down. The Count is a good- 
hearted gentleman, though a little too fond of frolic ; 
and he was returning from a wine party when he 
rode over my boy, who was playing in the street. 
He has been asking for the brave young tradesman 


824 THE neighbors’ children. 

who sprang out of the window of a workshop and 
held hack the horse at his own risk ; he called on 
me to say that ten ducats were ready for the 
young man’s acceptance as soon as ha chose to 
claim them. He did not know where to find you, 
nor I neither ; but I know you to be the same, and 
I hope God will reward you for that kind act a 
thousand times.” 

“ Bid you really do this, my son,” cried the 
overjoyed mother, “ and never mentioned it to your 
sister or myself?” 

“ I did not think it worth talking about, mother ; 
it was no more than any one else would have done,” 
answered Eugene ; and turning once more to the 
postman, said, “ You will have to trust me for a 
short time, my good man, for I really have not a 
penny at present. But I will not be long in your 
debt. I will carry you the money this evening ; 
and you may tell your boy I am coming to see him. 
In the meantime, carry him this piece of cake for 
me. So now, Melanie, you may pour out your- 
self ; fill up a brimming cup for me, for I am too 
hungry now to care about French fashions, or 
think much about Mademoiselle Adele.” 

The pleased postman closed the door and disap- 
peared. Lady Yon Grosse and her. children sat 
down to their delayed breakfast ; and as they 
laughed and chatted over their holiday fare, they 
forgot the letter and its accompanying present for 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 


325 


a short space. But when they opened the missive, 
it was with great surprise they found it from 
Amade, from whom they never expected to hear. 
It ran thus : — 

“ To Lady Yon Grosse : — Heaven he praised, I 
found the spot in the wood where I left the casket, 
and it safely hidden beneath the stones. I am 
glad to restore what remains of the jewels into the 
hands of the true owners, whom I am sure will 
now make a better use of them than I did of those 
that are gone. The money that lies in the bottom 
of the box you may use ; it was fairly gained, and 
is your own, most of it being the price of the 
jewels I sold. Think of me as one deeply repent- 
ant, and forgive the wrong I wrought upon you. 
May God, who in mercy led me to see my sinful 
ways, and strengthened me to resist temptation, 
bless you all. I shall see you no more in this 
world. The ship is ready to sail, and in another 
hour I shall be on the way to America. — Amade.” 

And there, forming a strong contrast to all else 
in that humble room, and the rude table whereon 
it lay, the bright gems within that casket of polished 
steel flashed and glittered in the brilliant sunshine 
that came dancing through the window. He shone 
as gaily on those few precious stones, the sole 
remainder of their once princely possessions, as he 
had done on the smoking ruins of their lordly 
castle of Hausdorff; for Nature, in all man’s 
28 


326 THE neighbors’ children. 

changes remains the same. The seasons alter 
according to the appointment of heaven ; the sun 
holds on his course, the rains “ fall alike on the 
just and unjust,” and seed-time and harvest come 
at their times of the Almighty bidding. Yet man 
and his concerns are not unmarked by the Heavenly 
Eye — the sun in his glory seems to mock the sad, 
and tempests lower around the gay and the happy. 
To them is appointed terms which they cannot 
pass ; but to man, the chosen creature of its mercy, 
heaven is ever accessible. 

The little group gazed in silence on those glitter- 
ing gems ; the deep emotion and various thoughts 
that filled the heart of each was too great for 
words. Eugene was the first to speak. 

“Now, mother,” said he, “my way is clear. I 
can now pay my debt of borrowed money to Hor- 
witz, and set up a cabinet-making shop for myself. 
I am determined never to indulge in a life of idle- 
ness ; I must have something to do ; and with 
God’s help, I will persevere in trying to do good.” 

Lady Yon Grosse answered not, for she had not 
heard one word of what her son had spoken. She 
was lost in deep thought, for she recognised now 
more plainly than ever the wonder-working Hand 
of God, which had led them through such deep 
waters to a secure haven. What were they — the 
thoughtless, the deeply sinning — that He should 
thus seek to reclaim their wanderings by a chastise- 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 327 

ment that had so tended to the healing of their 
souls ? She felt that it was all *)f mercy; and the 
beautiful passage of Holy Writ occurred to her 
niusing mind : “ Can man be profitable to God, as 
he that is wise may be profitable to himself? Is 
it any pleasure to the Almighty that thou art 
righteous ? or is it gain to him that thou makest 
thy ways perfect ? Will he reprove thee for fear 
of thee ? will he enter with thee into judgment ? ” 
No, not for this, but because he loves the creatures 
he has made, and wills not that any should perish. 
Has he not manifested this love in that he opened 
a Way to everlasting life ? has he not, in the per- 
son of the Saviour, exhibited Truth in her loveliest 
form before him ? Has he not, in his great com- 
passion, given his Son as a Great High Priest, who, 
touched with the feelings of man’s infirmities, 
stands forth his “ Advocate” and friend ? 

She who once had been the owner of a lordly 
castle, and was now the inmate of a low-ceiled 
garret room, acknowledged this present time to be 
the happiest portion of her life, inasmuch as she 
now knew what a great treasure she possessed in 
her children. But would they have proved such a 
blessing to her old age as they promised to be, had 
they not been taught in the school of Adversity ? 
And as she thought over the bitter sorrow cause ! 
through the wrong done her by her faithless 
servant, Amade, she felt that from her heart she 


328 THE neighbors’ children. 

could forgive him ; no bitterness filled her soul 
against one, whose sin against herself had been 
the means of bringing forth an end so desirable. 

Eugene did not on this holiday go out to seek 
the revel, nor the companionship of his fellow-work- 
men. He thought over what was now his duty ; 
and sitting down at the table, he wrote several 
letters. The first was to Horwitz, to whom he en- 
closed money to the amount of his debt, and 
another very long one to Felix, in which he 
detailed all his adventures since the time of their 
separation, his present abode and prospects, and 
the repentance and fate of Amade and the villain- 
ous old Simon, who, we before forgot to say, had 
met the punishment he so well merited, being con- 
demned to the galleys for life. 

Melanie, too, in her present improved condition 
did not forget those who had befriended her in her 
days of darkness ; she busied herself in preparing 
some useful presents for the collier’s family ; and 
as each one was remembered, she made up quite a 
large packet, which she afterwards heard had 
reached them in safety. 

Eugene’s letter found its way to Steinrode, 
where it was received with real joy. Baron Linden- 
burg, not having heard of the Count’s death, 
had written twice, and the new forest warden had 
answered the last one. After stating that his 
predecessor had died away from home, and his 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 329 

own appointment to the place, he coldly mentioned 
that the widow and her daughter had left the 
forest lodge to make room for his family, and were 
gone he knew not where. It is astonishing that 
human beings, liable to meet the same misfortunes, 
sympathize so little with each other ; but so it is ; 
we see or feel it every day. 

The interest, however, of this Christian family 
was not diminished in the fate of those whose 
affairs w T ere, for a time, so strangely blended up 
with their own ; and when Felix answered Eugene’s 
letter, the Baron bade him say he thought they 
had better remove to the neighborhood of Steinrode, 
which, in a short time afterwards, they really did. 

Again they were entertained for a time beneath 
its hospitable roof ; but not again was their sojourn 
productive of pain to their kind host. The spirit 
of grace had so changed their hearts, that they 
could not have been recognised by any one as the 
arrogant, overbearing children of other days, who 
had been wont to compare the now graceful Linden- 
burgs to dancing bears. 

Eugene purchased a small piece of ground, on 
which he built a neat house and work-shop, carry- 
ing on his business with all industry and diligence. 
Baron Lindendurg sustained him both by counsel 
and pecuniary aid, witnessing with great delight, 
from day to day, the wonderful transformation 
made in his character. 

‘ 28 * 


330 THE NEIGHBOKS’ CHILDKEN. 

Lady Yon Grosse now lived contented and in 
great comfort with her children ; differently, indeed, 
from the manner in which she had done at the time 
we first introduced her to our readers ; but happier 
by far in her humbler life, than she had ever been 
in her days of luxury. Eugene was affectionate 
and kind; Melanie everything that her mother 
could wish ; and a pleasant day was always antici- 
pated at Steinrode when they made a weekly visit 
there, a rule which they regularly observed. 

Eugene succeeded well in his undertaking. lie 
purchased his materials with great foresight, 
managed his affairs with the caution that belonged 
to more experienced years ; and the consequences 
of his thrift were soon visible in his increasing pros- 
perity. He soon ceased to work himself, for his 
business, ere long, became so large that he had 
enough to do to keep his books, and conduct the 
arrangements of his buying and selling. And 
right happy was he, that once idle, self-willed 
Eugene, in the* knowledge that his industry had 
prepared so pleasant a home for his mother in her 
old age, and that he could furnish Melanie with 
not only necessary comforts, but many things 
which she once did not think of enjoying, and now 
considered luxuries. 

Felix assisted his father in the farming and 
management of the broad lands of Steinrode, and 
bid fair to make quite as good a landlord when he 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 331 

should be called on to fill his place. The tenants 
loved him, the poor blessed him, and to his family 
he was a treasure. The blemish of impatience, 
which had once marred his character, became 
entirely obliterated ; and the thoughtlessness that 
had more than once led to such sad consequences, 
was carefully guarded against. Not but that 
natural propensities sometimes rose up to tempt 
him in his steady purposes, but Adversity had 
taught him to resist their influence, and Grace 
strengthened 'him to overcome. 

Herman, according to his wish ever from boy- 
hood, prosecuted his studies as a physician, for 
which his calm, steady disposition well fitted him. 
He settled in the capital, and in time rose to emi- 
nence and distinction ; and until he had an estab- 
lishment of his own, and had chosen a helpmate 
for life, aunt Angela conducted the affairs of his 
household. There, then, under his roof the Linden- 
burg family passed a month every winter; yet 
always returning with joyful longing to Steinrode, 
that dear old home of which they never tired. 

The best of news reached them from time to 
time from that distant land whither Ehrenfried and 
his patron had gone. Many letters were inter- 
changed between Felix and his friend ; and many 
beautiful specimens of entomology and botany were 
sent by the latter, to increase the collection at 
Steinrode ; for the former, in becoming a farmer, 


332 THE neighbors’ children. 

had lost none of his love for Natural History, but 
studied the science, and made discoveries in it, 
that gave him a name conspicuous among accom- 
plished Naturalists. 

Years passed over, and it seemed as if Time in 
his flight still increased their happiness and their 
blessings. Piety was the foundation of their joy ; 
why should it not be lasting ? They knew that all 
things on earth are subject to change ; but theirs 
was the faith that bade them look further than this 
world, whose fashion is soon to pass away. They 
knew, too, that when the “ house of the earthly 
tabernacle” was destroyed, they were told of hope 
for “ one not made with hands, eternal in the 
heavens,” and although “ on earth there is no con- 
tinuing city,” they could confidently look forward 
to “one whose builder and whose maker is God.” 

At length a letter came from Mr. Norman to 
the Baron. He wrote that having sojourned in the 
New World until he was weary of hot suns, orange 
groves, reptiles, and fevers, he intended returning 
in the course of a few months with Ehrenfried, 
whom he had formally adopted as his son. He 
bade him apprize the young man’s mother, who 
was still living, and through the joint care of the 
good old Englishman and the Baron, in great 
comfort, in a cottage of her own, that they would 
proceed immediately to Steinrode, “where,” said 
the old man in his letter, “ according to our agree- 


THE NEIGHBORS’ CHILDREN. 333 

ment, I wish to make a long visit in your happy 
family. 

The tidings were received joyfully by all. 
Ehrenfried’s mother folded her hands in acknowledg- 
ment to heaven, while tears flowed down her aged 
cheeks. The Lindenburg children (for we still will 
call them so,) hastened to tell Eugene and Melanie 
the news. A deep blush dyed the cheeks of the 
latter, as she heard the name of Ehrenfried — she 
had not forgotten the affair of the bracelet, and 
her heart was pained at the idea of meeting one 
whom she had once used so ill. 

“ I will try by every means in my power to 
make him forget it,” said she to Felix. 

Eugene was overwhelmed with shame, as he re- 
called his own arrogant behaviour to the gentle 
peasant boy. 

“But his is a noble spirit,” said he, “and he 
will forgive us, I am sure. Felix, I will make him 
love me ; I will leave no means untried to win his 
confidence; and then, once more united in the 
social circle, there shall not be found, neither far 
nor near, better friends than the ‘Neighbors’ 
Children.’ ” 


THE END. 




■ 


€\)t Benunih] Burnt 


LINDSAY & BLAKISTON, PHILADELPHIA, 

HAVE JUST PUBLISHED THE THIRD EDITION OF 

THE HEAYENLY HOME; 

OR THE 

EMPLOYMENT AND ENJOYMENTS OF THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN. 
BY THE REV. H. HARBAUGH, 

AUTHOR OF “THE HEAVENLY RECOGNITION OF FRIENDS,' ” AND 

“iieaven; or, the sainted dead.” 

Ill One Volume 13mo. Price 00. 

OPINION'S OF THE PKESS. 

“The Heavenly Home.”— There is something taking in that title— 
at least there ought to be to the Christian heart. Like “The Saints - 
Everlasting Rest,” it wins upon the ear, and awakens delightful expec- 
tations. Still we were not prepared for so pleasant a volume. We did 
not look for so much earnestness in discussion, so much beauty and ele- 
gance of style, so much fervent and exalted piety, and withal so little 
idle speculation. In reading it, we almost felt as though we were stand- 
ing in sight of the Heavenly Jerusalem; and, to vary a little the senti- 
ment of Washington Irving, if it did not leave us a better, it certainly 
left us a more devout man than we were before its perusal. We therefore 
feel that in commending it to the reader’s notice, we are doing him an 
essential service. — Protestant. 

There is nothing fanciful here — nothing bold and venturous in specu- 
lation, nor attenuated and mystical in disquisition ; but the author gives 
himself up in all simplicity to the leading of the Holy Spirit — follows 
the instructions of Scripture closely, expounds them agreeably to the 
soundest principles of interpretation, infuses an humble and devotional 
spirit into every page and paragraph of his work, aiming to lead his 
reader through well described paths of intelligence, love, and new obe- 
dience, into “ the Heavenly Home.” There is very much to enlighten 
those sitting in darkness, much to refresh those ready to faint through 
the greatness of the way, much to encourage the desponding, direct the 
inquiring, and quicken the steps of the halting. In a word, the volume 
is one that every child of God, and every one longing to bear the filial 
relation to him, may take up with an assurance of Divine instruction 
and consolation.— Congregationalist. 

The style of this book is lucid— the thoughts glowing — the tone that 
everywhere pervades, is heaven-like. The author has seized upon every 
aspect of heaven which Scripture, reason, or imagination allow him to 
present, and he has dwelt upon them with the zest of a passionate ex- 
pectation of dwelling therein. To aged saints in particular this volume 
will be very attractive . — Journal and Messenger. 


OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 


We have no doubt, that through fear of prying into the secret things 
of God, too little is done towards comprehending and expounding what 
has been revealed as to the final abode of justified spirits. The topic is 
a delightful one, and ought to secure a large share of the contemplations 
of the Christian. That heavenly state is to be his everlasting home. 
Compared with this, the things of time should be of little interest to him. 
— Presbyterian. 

The author has distinguished himself by the works which have already 
proceeded* from his pen on important themes. This work has already 
reached its second edition, which is the best proof that it is circulated, 
and finds interested readers. The style is easy and fascinating, and the 
sentiments betray much deep thought on the subject. Its perusal will 
awaken reflection, and lead to a more diligent study of the Bible, to see 
if the things here uttered are verily so. — Christian Chronicle. 

The Rev. author of this volume has devoted much time and talent to 
the sublime themes announced in its title-page, and the result of his 
pious and soul-enlivening researches has already appeared in two dis- 
tinct treatises, one entitled “ Heaven, or The Sainted Dead,” the other 
“ The Heavenly Recognition.” 

The work before us is intended as a sequel to the two foregoing, and 
the three treatises complete the entire field of inquiry to which the en- 
ergies of no ordinary mind have been bent. Mr. Harbaugh we rank 
with Philips, or White, or Dr. James Hamilton, of London. Gifted by 
God with a strong and well-cultivated mind — highly sanctified by divine 
grace — this author has consecrated its powers to the cause of God. — 
Evangelical Advocate. 

The doctrine of the future recognition of friends in heaven, is pre- 
sented with great clearness and force ; and we do not see how it is pos- 
sible to escape from the writer’s main conclusion. Indeed, the whole 
subject is treated with great copiousness, fervor, and eloquence. The 
work will prove a balm (as we doubt not it has done already — for this 
is a second edition) to many a heart bleeding under a sense of bereave- 
ment. — Puritan Recorder. 


HARBAUGH’S FUTURE LIFE; 

CONTAINING 

HEAVEN, OR, THE SAINTED DEAD, 
THE HEAVENLY RECOGNITION, 

THE HEAVENLY HOME. 

THREE VOLUMES, NEATLY BOUND IN CLOTH, WITH GILT BACKS, AND A 
PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR. PRICE $2 50. 

Copies of the above Books, handsomely bound for presentation, 
in cloth, full gilt. Price of the first and second volumes, $1 25 each ; 
of the third, $1 50. 


















































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